Silver Spell

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Elegant in silver, the weapon of her choice

Not by blade or bloodshed does the huntress claim her prey.

Closer still she prowls toward a lone soul's quiet sigh,

Hand to heart in image of despair.

And quietly, she starts to sing, a tale of lovers lost,

Neither's passion waning with Death's sibilant approach,

Till her tale is ready spun, he snared within its net,

Ripped so swiftly open by her words.

Ever watchful, ever near, she holds his broken gaze in hers

So softly, softly does he fall to sleep...

Softly does his body melt to ashes on the wind.

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