The lunar eye looks straight at her
From which level of Dante's of hell does this allegorical figure ascend?
She sings perfectly. Not a chord off scale, not a single octave too high or too low, minors, majors, sevens and suses, yet the distance between performance and performer grows like canyons in continental plates. How does she sing so beautifully? But yet, something is missing. A sorrow, a fury, a hate that burns for miles, and a love that wants nothing in return; eyes that properly protrudes the profound passion of human horror.

So she throws herself savagely at the world, to seek out life's horrors in the hollow souls of every unholy ghost in purified form, profound suffering and endless sickness. Birth, death, disease, loss, love and life itself, knowing that everything else is expendable, because what does not make us itch beneath our feet or stir turmoil in our minds is of no relevance.
The Duende will find his way inside her marrows. He will fester on her cords and well up her eyes with ecstatic enlightened tears of exploding color, because life came caterwauling, yet here she stands.

She breaks into song once more
The Devil burns inside her now.
And the well of her wisdom boils with the Sound and Fury of Humanity.