She is a bird in a cage that you keep,
whose songs you ravage and reap.

But she is a silent, catastrophic storm;
she will requite, and destroy your form.

Until your own ashes and dust you adorn,
and to your bones, your flesh is torn—

bare flesh, bearing every sin and desire,
and in her claws, these she will acquire.

The bird will abandon her feathers and skin:
she is the aethon, and she will soon begin to disembowel you and devour everything;
while you shriek, she will laugh and sing.

Against your empty vessel, each fiery kiss sears,
and her mocking cries echo in your hollow ears.

Your birds chant to the rhythm of your torment:
"For your stolen fire, you will atone and repent."