As she sat beneath olive green willows, the shade and shadows complimented the melancholy in her eyes. The breeze whispered about the phantoms of her past, stimulating soft sighs composed with morose intent. The summer daze neglected the heat, and the excess air waves distorted her vision. Gentle kisses between low hung tree branches and the still pond in front of her added romantic tones to a sorrow filled afternoon. Song birds preened and sang together in the trees above. They cannot fathom my heart, the way it weeps in the breeze. There was a time when she still smiled, but it seemed like a distant memory, slowly fading into the mists of her mind. Now the recollection is marred. It accentuates that crescent shaped wound on her neck. This one will scar as well. She was not a stranger to the marks of heresy, to the testaments of sacrilege that were strewn across her slender remains…