In mulberry mist, she walks alone,
Where camellias bloom on brittle stone.
Two shillings placed on either eye,
Waiting beneath the anthelion sky.
Her voice — a myth of limpid lullaby,
Beckoning souls where roses die.
With talons masked in dahlias red,
Combing the tomb of lovers dead.
Her vow was forged in whispered flame,
A concubine defiled by fate's game.
Refute her name, deny her cries,
And love shall rot where silence lies.