She says that she's one made for trivial things
Her fingers of marble bearing black diamond rings
While holding my hand she comforts me so
Her fingers as cold as the ice and the snow  
I cannot ask her the words I do not speak
But I wish to know a secret she keeps
We cannot talk long for my lungs can still breathe
And so to her word my blade I do sheathe
She says that it's not the night for such an end
Her silver set eyes well with tears that can mend