Burn the one that flies with the raven of midnight hair,
Words in concussive form. altering thoughts of those
Fed syllables of meaning who were under the influence.
No longer a puppet, they are now consumed by what
Expels those corruption. Fire cleanses their body, mind
Purification of the soul of impurities of word.
She was the whisperer of old moments forgotten, but
Spoken in her diluted tongue, but those of uninformed
Words, silence their saviour, a weapon against word.
They rallied before us, language of hand silent words,
She spoke to no avail, her tongue mesmerizing, but
Weakness to the silent tongue, shackled, sealed, silent.
We were of weakness to even a whisper, but they watched,
Governed over the wordless power. She did burn that night,
And as did so, ravens feathers fell like ash upon the floor.
