She walks on the edge of our world, forgotten,
A vision in white and with long black hair
That covers a face that from malice has rotten
And leaves her to wander in spite and despair.
Sometimes she weeps and sometimes she rages,
The memory of her passed down through the ages
As the one who would not make a lord of a man,
And for this, she is swept from the good book’s pages.
Was it a crime or was it a blunder
To cling onto pride and refuse to go under?
Was it worth tearing the heavens asunder?
Would she do differently now, I wonder.
Maybe it’s loss and maybe it’s sorrow
That makes her walk like there’s no tomorrow
Away from the darkness, away from the hate
That from her endless anger, borrow.
They are the dogs that bite those who feed them
And she is the dog that bit her lord’s hand;
No matter how precious, how much of a gem,
She remains a monster; from paradise, banned.