The Singer's Grief Poem by Peter Black

I.


Once long ago in France, a Knight abode,
Wearing the silver cross of our good Lord;
Loving of his two fathers: King, and God,
Who rule the land and the heavens abroad.
Along the highways this warrior rode,
Humming in tune with the Dorian mode;
At his father's bidding to preserve truth.
Strong was this soldiers love of high virtue:
Beauty shone glittering beneath his helm;
Strength shook vigorously throughout his limbs;
To Justice his motions were always drawn,
As a hunter towards a baying fawn;
Riches he possessed, but never displayed;
In him wisdom grew, but delayed by age;
Sober he was in all such encounters;
On the field of war and by Flatterers.
Owing all his life's many glories
To his father's righteous patrimonies.
But the hair on his face began to raise,
Marking his Masculine coming of age.
Now the king made much hurrah in the realm;
Hoping to hear golden wedding bells
Sending a paean through his vast country;
By them a grandson for his legacy.
He searched far off lands for a princess pure,
To wed his child, the good name endure,
Widening his sway by the marriage band
(Nations grow when a jeweler stamps his brand) .
Heralds, he to each strong castle had sent,
Delivering scrolls of marriage intent.
To every girl, the Prince shook his head,
Agreeing only under threat of death.
Saying, ‘Not until true love do I meet,
Her not a princess but maiden born be,
Raised not on a throne in courtly pomp;
Grown in kitchens never in life to drop
The congenial habits of women,
In which all men are someway beholden;
Taught to cook and in her touch goes true love,
Her eyes brighter than the daughters of Jove.
Warm her body above the chilling freeze,
That kills off crops; blown by the frigid breeze,
Then transfuses upon the stones of old
Castles, whose inhabitants now shiver,
And their touch makes and man quiver.
No a woman who takes delight in birth;
By her maturing children obtains worth;
Cherishing me, and I equally her
Until we to heaven die and transfer.'
His father in much ire made the pact.
His son was granted one year, love to grasp.
But now pure virgins of the mount retell,
Sing and dance for the senses warning spells,
In fine chanting how the knight uncovered
A farmer's girl and false love discovered;
How all near this youthful, blossoming maid
Were harmed or found themselves in earthly graves.
Near Bordeaux, in a small farm settlement
East of the river Garronne, people went
Like flocks of sheep on steep hills when they graze,
In community through all rains and haze.
Warming each other in deadly winter;
When the ice melts away in spring rivers;
Alike in all joy, in every pain,
In birth and death forever will remain
As one surviving on the others fleece,
With constant turmoil and rarest peace.
In the town lived a doctor and potter,
A strong metal worker strong and pure vintner,
Farmers plenty, also herdsman of beasts,
A weaver of clothing and holy priest,
A tanner, and craftsman, and governor
Who handles land disputes rarely more;
Yet, one day a minstrelling young man came.
He cared not for high honor or false fame,
Nor appearances of dignified state.
On a lowly mule in torn clothes he sate.
Into the town holding his lyre he rode.
His mule not burdened by a heavy load,
Kept a fast speed matching his smiling face;
Yet not hurried or frantic was his pace,
As a man who runs when he is late to meet
An old acquaintance wandering the streets;
But a man who has not one thing to do.
Nothing he desires to gain or lose.
Neither did this man possess God's good faith.
Believed he did but his soul was not saved.
Tall he stood with shoulders broad as tree limbs,
His arms and legs were long but sickly thin,
His face sunken, but strong features beneath
The dirt and uncouth hair lay there unseen,
And his eyes' rust was more piercing than stars,
As when Saturn in the sky touches mars.
His face upheld a sensitivity,
Of man feeling the human charity.
His fingers and voice stirred man's spirit
By plucking strings and songs of eloquence,
That rang out while he played the old lyre,
Made by his father, crafted in fire.
His home was wherever he tied the reigns,
Holding his prized possessions deep within:
Songs of love bringing soft tears to the eyes,
Tragedies which men relate to and cry,
Heroic tales of honorable men,
And epic histories of fabled lands.
As he rode his brown mule through the dirt streets,
Hoping by chance the governor to meet,
He was showered by looks from villagers,
Eager of his purpose and discover
What brought a lone visitor to their town;
Yet none through conversation could be found.
They followed him as he entered the square.
On its podium his lyre prepared,
Tuning the strings, and warbling his voice.
The anxious crowd at once ceased to make noise.
He then silenced the music of heaven
(A sound as if to Orpheus brethren):
Notes so sharp, they seemed to cut into air,
Onto the body slicing, raising hair.
His eyes were closed consumed with melody,
Yet his mind was open in all degrees.
Men swore an angel, down to earth had come.
Woman and girls in their bodies were numb.
Last to arrive running was Mary.
Hearing him she began to lose her knees.
His face invoked in her strong desire
To love, and into his arms retire.
The minstrel finished with jovial cries,
Applause, and envy in the town folk's eyes.
Men say love at first sight is foulest lust,
Nay, under Polymnia's spell she was:
Innocent maiden feeling new grown thoughts,
Warming loins and heart; by sin she felt wrought.
Fleeing the crowd as an uncovered swan
Who bathing herself in water at dawn,
With outspread wings takes to Aurora's skies,
Flies into fresh light beams, born from sunrise.
Into the woods she retired and wept,
Exhausted past into Somnus and slept.
Mary, woke in the gray twilight hour
When Helios, leaves Selene in power.
Quickly she gathered herself running home,
Seeing her father when she met the road.
To her dismay and delight, he began
To speak of his inviting the young man
For dinner followed by a course of song.
Mary, now for his face began to long.
The two reached their house and through the door;
But at the entrance they were met before
The candle light registered in their eyes
By salutations, she the young man spies.
Reaching out his thin arm pressing her hand;
He notices the absence of a band;
To his lips praising her beautiful form.
In their locking of eyes love was then born.
Mary, fleeing to her room bid ado,
With a curtsy and in her eyes fresh dew.
The young man smiled and shook the old hand
Respectful; his heart could not understand
What fluttering now for the first time rose
In him, as the ocean ebbing grows
From low tide with a swell towards the shore.
By chance the summer rains begin to pour,
Flooding the streams and the river outspreads.
All is water, and on water man treads.
All those who sing of love so easily,
When it bites can not escape it freely.
So the man confused at the table sat,
Slowly eating from his plate in thought wrapped.
In front of the woman he desired,
His body warming and it perspired.
The while her family of him asked
For what purpose he into the town passed.
Breaking away he said in an upstart,
‘An open forum to sing from my heart
A soft melody I recently made.
The town's folk as judges in hate or praise
Of the tune and lyric before I go;
Present it I will to the king, in show.
Gaining any success or failure by him.
Not riches and title but proof of skill.'
Though he did lie for a new course he made,
To win Mary, by a sweet serenade.
At first he desired the mayor's presence,
And some letter or envoy as pretense
To enter the court room of his great king
And in the high vaulted chamber proudly sing,
One time before his emanate demise;
When in the cold ground his body shall lie
(For an age had he felt eternal sleep
Press upon his limbs and behind him creep;
Having always been bereft of strong hope
Like necessity they vibrantly glow
As beacons lighting man's path to follow.
He consumed by emptiness had wallowed,
Singing adding to his vacuity):
Yet now with her hoped for prosperity,
No longer please the ever singing muse
Who grants the gift obligated to use
Only, no, but life that may linger on
In joy though his body is to pain drawn,
Shall feel perfected in its state of mind,
Despite what punishment it takes with time;
Knowing when he dies his body will keep,
The rotten home in which the gadfly sleeps;
But his children will carry on the name,
In their minds his many songs will remain.
And take relief from Mary's bright visage,
He giving her love for the privilege
To share in her for all eternity,
Caretaker of Mary's maternity.
He sat before her, the meal had finished.
Not slightly had their passion diminished,
But built oblivious to each other,
Like falling snow on the mountains shoulder
Forming lose layers on the slope unseen,
When one triggers it the avalanche screams
Downward tossing rock and ice with passion
(So is love's release alike in fashion) .
The table cleared her father asked to hear
His minstrel worthy of the good king's ear.
Blushing now there was no song he knew
Worthy to sing for Mary, by it woo.
Thus he begged the old man one night's rest before
Playing, thanking them exiting the door;
To his room in great speed retired,
In connection with the muses conspired.
He pressed firmly his eye lenses backward
By hand until the inner light forward,
With swirling distortions of line and shape
Came forth, slowly a picture behind pain.
Interpreting the vision by their aid.
Soon afterward the song's melody came.
Exhausted he fell into slumber
Letting night his worn body recover.
Dancing with the Oneiroi wildly,
Picturing the scene of life happily.
Hasty were the emerging hopes and dreams.
Aphrodite picks whoever she deems,
Raising two up in a field of battle.
In the end both players are no matter,
Only victors and losers in her game,
Whether fine princess or flashy dame,
Strapping soldier or penniless young man;
Though his voice be sweet the world still demands
The picture of virtue not its bare truth
(Foolish are all our dreams crafted in youth) .
So one must ask if the singer is meant,
Or would be given right, Mary, to wed.
For he is not the image of a man,
Not the man that society demands.
Though he thinks a life with her can be built;
Like gilded flowers in the end will wilt,
What once was life in the black soil, death,
So a lover's voice turns to foul breath.
A happy thought does not make something real.
The objects men see are not ideas.
Seeing only the beginning and end;
First he must win her, the future will bend,
He believed towards his ultimate goal.
(Men imagine by their hands planets roll)
Yet, unknowing there was no need to be
Charming or win her over for had she,
In the night left the safety of her bed,
Soaked in fear of discovery and dread;
But pushed by the primitive desire,
It unrelenting never suspires:
To feel warm flesh pressed hard upon tight skin,
The shaking legs of her lost innocence,
The animal moans of copulation,
That grow higher in alleviation:
Frantic as Dionysus' choir,
Dancing in passion around the fire,
Bare breasted, their hair wound by his long vines,
Eager for any man, god, or rich wine.
So she slipped between the sheets of his down,
Her white gown removed lying on the ground.
Every pour on her body burning,
The ceiling above her head fast turning.
Mary laid her lily hand upon him,
Touched his thigh, relieving sin, night, took them.
O such emotions on the bed traversed.
Sending tremors to the center of earth.
Reminding Gaea of her first love Sky,
Who protecting her, relieving saddened cries.
So she shook and quaked in moans of her own,
With Eros a child of Earth was born:
Another start to dot heavenly sky,
Another glimmer in her lover's eye.
He woke anxiously in a sweat to prove,
Upon the new day's fresh light, the night's truth,
Yet she had left swiftly drifting away
Before Theai, showed the breaking day;
But wrapped around his wrist was a red bow:
A memento tied fondly by a trove.
To the den he cautiously made his way,
Either welcomed or his own death allay.
But amicable were their attitudes,
Mary coquettish in the corner stood.
Her family sat awaiting his song.
He slowly closed his eyes, soon were they gone.
"Which Roman sculpted your visage in bronze,
Laid gold and silver, much jewels in its frame,
Ever worked the metals, slim shaped the arms;
In his artwork titled beauties new name,
By the good creation angered the gods.
How his soul lifted, was thrown then higher
Up from the muck: dwellings of fiendish dogs.
To this realm philosophers aspire.
Seeing among the clouded valleys, now
Angels in minstrel of sweet melody
Fit only to be rung in thy presence; sound
The bells sing hosannas joyfully.
Though who was I to see the image clear
On earth, stung by Love's ever sharpened spear."
Opening his eyes focusing on her
The room was empty and she burned,
With a smile drifting into corners.
The kitchen held her family members.
In silence standing for a coming voice,
None rose as if fear humbled their choice.
Rather than wasting a moment alone
Their stopped mouths and throats were at once let go
In soft "I love you." And a secret tryst
That evening to discuss what they wish,
Their hopes, their dreams, whether go, or make peace,
Pressed hands and towards the table to eat.
Muses how sweetly does man in love sing
By you when he soars on amorous wings
Above the grasses glossed in midnight dew
Which Artemis colors a darkish blue;
Through forests and glades covered in silence,
There is no noise but of its quiescence.
Deep hurried breaths blowing smoke through the wind,
Full of longing for Aphrodite's kiss.
He and Mary, met in a clearing by
The old oak trees on the further side
From town, where none would unearth them,
Unless in search through thick woods on felled stems,
Make a raucous disturbing perfect peace;
Fair warning to disperse their tryst is breached.
Showering Mary, with adorations,
Love's high admiration and elation,
And promising his girl a life of ease,
Once he to the king sings; a stipend sees;
Brought under position in the throne room:
Chief minstrel with charge of each day's new bloom.
His task to grow flowers under rich feet
From dead earth all for his master's relief.
He pulled her towards him kissing her lips,
Arranging for the next night's late visit.
Good virtue is our heavenly spirit
Guiding us as Dante was by Virgil,
But incomplete love in man souls conquer.
Where once virtue reigned, pleasure takes honor.
The bond becoming man's self made prison.
Henceforth he must conjure all life's visions,
Them being likenesses removed from truth,
Amplified in inexperienced youths:
Seeing only images and shadows,
Fearful he in his mind's recesses cowers,
Living by blind hope, crafting dreams in err;
Not what he wants but what is plucked from air,
As those foolish men in closed chambers see
Pictures of themselves on a throne in ease;
Yet doomed to rot away on wooden cots,
Their dreams they have but wisdom bars its lock.
So lovers rather than make love truly
Think only of their own futility:
What must be done instead of what they do,
Doing nothing or much of little use.
Lowly singers to court rooms hope ascend,
When for mankind's aid their voice should bend.
Young maidens in fields of flowers should play
Before maturity takes them away.
Still delusion and youth pushes them to,
Scorn life for an implausible dreams proof;
Running through forests in night time hours,
Rank in deceit, with secrets are showered.
They can not see what old men know,
Nor will they blame themselves when all love goes.
He does not ponder why she will not speak,
How her shining eyes are turning to weep.
Happiness and sorrow alike in face
Both similar differing only in grace
Begin to slip and rise on her visage.
Thus is always true the ancient adage:
This week's pleasure becomes the next week's grief.
What once was good in time its strength grows week.
Mary ever more regretted the choice,
To roll the ball, perfumed by his sweet voice,
Dancing with love, in sleep constrained by fear,
In turmoil longing for the past years.
Though still in the bower they lay with night,
Mixing their emotions with lurid delights.
Now rather than transgress what more can be
Said for events that linger on in dreams.
It gives the poet no pleasure to say
Same things many times of himself in vain.
For than singer and Mary met in the woods
Nightly. The Muses could not amass the words,
Nor would diluting themselves to retell,
But better to move on and new trees fell
Then burn the Muses and speaking nothing.
Though still one event is worth his noting:
Before leaving to the King's throne, he must
Speak to the governor and earn his trust.
He sang for him a tune of his father,
In a closed room from one to another.
Obtaining his letter he soon prepared
Towards the castle all for his lady fair.

II.


Old men tell a story of women when
Young boys on the hems of girl's dresses mend,
How once two friends over a lady fought,
Not in desire but the better thought:
What is new is good and from girl to girl,
The boys would chase and their minds a swirl,
Of confusion derived from happiness:
What is sadness; then what is best;
Being unguided children they still ran,
But Muses your strength the poet demands
For he has grown tired in purpose and voice.
Knowing by you lyrics are turned from noise;
Giving you Gods the glory when he shines,
His own weakness when he fails and not thine.
Tell now of the king's most virtuous son,
How into Mary's town he rode and won
The singer's fair girl and married her there,
How she wore a white gown and a white veil.
The many cities of France he had viewed:
Ports, trade centers and those hid in woods.
Some ornamented like stones in a crown,
But most were valued truffles underground,
Whose people would environ little less
Then what they make or along the roads pass.
The knight could not uncover his maiden,
Saw he did many a fine young women,
Like patches of blooming flowers in spring,
Cloistered together many colored bring
The varied please to a spectator;
Looking chooses his favorite color.
The knight sober as he was, would not leave
Virtues high plains and immaturely cleave,
Raising up fallen chutes which please the eye,
Admiring before the petals die.
Honorably he met with each new girl
Along with her father or caretaker.
There were few who turned his face a red flush,
His stomach to a boil, and cheeks blush,
Until he crossed the wide river Garrone,
Coming to the town's great Patriarch's home.
He asked the old man for rest from the road.
Courteously he bid his servant come
Take the stallions reigns and the his barn run,
Sweat the horse and with warm oats soothe its pain.
The prince led to private room by maid
Could calm his malaise and discuss at din,
His purpose before family and kin.
Once rested he to the table prepared,
Seeing the households many members there,
Thought plain the splendid meals eaten in court
Before many companions all unknown.
How comforting is a room of good friends,
Warming cold nights what better way to spend
A day, a year, a lifetime in such state.
The prince spoke a prayer before he sate.
Thanking glorious god for all his grace:
Shedding a bright light on the human race,
Lessening the darkness of earthly sin,
By it all men to heaven feel akin.
He enjoyed that food with sublime delight,
It being the fullest meal of his life.
Finished he spoke of searching for true love:
A necessity his soul craves above
All vanities lying numerous here;
Earth: full of them and the warriors spear,
As sharp blades with ever grinded edges,
Destroys flesh and into organs wedges;
The wielder must know the blade does err,
Also a true edge does not lie on earth.
When a strike or blow contacts the body,
Recipients be cautious and weary:
A blow off target, not treated may reap
In time the gift granted to Hades' seat.
(Untainted love being akin to good
Yet the lines bend like the bowman's tight wood.
Important still is a purpose for one
In another distorts as light from sun) .
By candle light Mary's visage did shine
Forceful among shadows onto the knight.
All his training in good virtue were spent,
Reasoning soul and sick body were rent,
The latter now chief ruler of himself,
Former in recesses was sadly left.
The knight passionately asked the old man
If his daughter was betrothed to husband.
He responded by recalcitrant nay.
She had no suitor, nor lover to mate.
Deeply shocked he began to praise her fine form,
Upbraid the masses of blind men who roam
Chambers and halls looking to blood alone,
Never to see the beauty in eyes shown
From a fresh woman untouched by the taint
Of stone floors where one kneels as suppliant.
He then begged the elder if in courtship,
Through many days of monitored friendship,
He may win the hand of his daughter pure,
Rather than by title her body lure;
Yet, what else than yes would any man say
To a prince and a share in their country.
What relief sprung in the womb of Mary;
Soon to be princess no longer filthy,
As she would be uncovered in eight months;
Now only the king's most blessed grandson.
What courtship passed between two whom time pressed:
The prince's year, bellow Mary's bodice.
Before one week passed the marriage was pledged,
Loving eternally soon to be wed.
He feigned to opinion of a doctor,
To inspect Mary whether she is pure,
Trusting solely the words of a women
(Like eve and Pandora man's worst omen:
Full of lies, deceit and the devil's voice,
But perhaps worst of all their lustful poise,
Which dopes virtue and the body at ease
Commits horrendous acts of self release) .
Sweet Mary fearful of her actions:
What has been done and what soon will compact,
Now leaps to a rope which is caught on fire,
Jumps blindly but will die by the fire;
Will wallow eternally in marshes
Bordering Acheron, mouths and throats parched,
Unless with god, the gift of forgiveness
Being granted in ones own repentance,
Brings the only relief she may take:
Must prostrate to god for her child's sake.
Mary like foolish women often seen
Wandering the opposite sides of streets,
Donning ripped clothes, hair torn, covered in ash.
Their skin dirty, but worse the inner rash:
Like leprosy rotting the mantled soul.
Life and death for them is constant turmoil;
All for their husband's visitor, he gives
A youthful crushes likening; forgive
The dame: immaturely like the breeze
Touches all objects unchecked must be free;
Never! What is done once will grow into two.
Blame her first but after all will blame you
(O pity the fellow who does not know
The heart of a woman is bitter cold,
Giving you a child who is not yours,
Despises mate inwardly till old age,
Wets the fate's fingers as they turn the page) .
The knight subdued by love's soft caresses
Neglects the old voice of better senses.
Amorous as birds that sore and tumble,
He who once was so cautious and noble,
Marries her quickly in the town's chapel,
She wears a white gown his tunic purple,
White crysanthemums dot her hair, they gleam.
Smiling all is asleep in a dream.
In her fear drops as molten bars of lead
Into water, steams, cools; gone is her dread.
Leaves only the vapor on which she wafts
(Believing good comes from wrong all is lost) .
The priest sanctifies mankind's most blessed bond.
The knight tomorrow planning to go on,
Towards his father's court, towards home
Where he and Mary will sit near his throne.
They say goodbye to her close family,
Gathered belongings, mounted his white stead,
Traveling a day made camp in a wood,
Sheltered by wide trees, it leaves formed a nook.
The knight and her spent the night conversing
Of past, future, dreams and inner yearnings,
Childish stories of misadventure,
Memories of death, birth, pain and pleasure.
Once Mary through sex the truth hoped pervert;
Her inner egg cracked and love was overt.
By every touch from him she grew warm,
Melts at once then vibrating newly forms,
Shakes again in elemental desire;
The two make passionate love by fire.
Traveling in day, loving through the night
A score's day journey sped in fastest flight.
The king received them with quiet surprise
Having no warning that his son arrives
Alone, lest with a glowing young women.
He aclariticly assembles his men,
The knight and Mary kneel before his feet,
He bids them rise and men prepare a feast,
Others take to their instruments of sound,
Others the golden wedding bells ring out.
In his great hall all members take a seat.
The king stands beginning to make a speech.
Saying, "How splendid is a day when the son
Of any man come home bringing true love,
Though riches and land are honored by men,
Thusly by blood and title wrap gold bands
On women whom they neither know or love,
Choosing material abundance, lose
Real happiness, settling for the state
Of kingship and oligarchy, but hate
Inwardly themselves, as holy god
Despises men who take money like dogs;
Constantly searching for a scrap of meat,
Will gorging their bellies until surfeit,
Vomit up the bile upon closest kin.
Then gladly take another plate at din.
God who said money is sin's evil source,
Which diverts men from heaven's holy course.
What a glad day when your son with God goes,
Breaks the commandments, risks his father's blows,
All to follow in the bright path of god,
Doing what he knew right and the king wrong.
Pride in my heart rises like a chorus,
Gathers strength, glides like the wind Boreas,
Blowing my sin and doubt towards the sea.
My son will better lead this monarchy.
In honor of him and his bride, a feast;
Dine I won't, for I am contently pleased:
Recline, a spectator of my grown boy,
Mary, too whose beauty brings us both joy.
In one week for my pleasure you will wed
Again before our closest brethren."
So said and a prayer, then began eat.
Muses how sweetly does good truth defeat
Iniquity in poets and in man
When he acknowledges his crimes and wrongs,
Accepts his punishment, changes the wrongs,
Rather than run from fear face it forwards,
Doing so obtains eternal reward.
By truth discard the coverings of sin
Lying as fine fabric on the crook, stints
All eyes; destroy them drawing up virtue
As a blanket in cold to protect you!
Wedded again, beside the king's throne
Sat the knight and Mary; eight months to atone
She squandered as the child in her womb
Steadily grew and its birth date loomed
Over her head, love in her heart burning
Set her body confused into churning;
Yet she stood reserved to pass the boy off
As his, hoping never alive be caught;
Too scared to tell the man she now loves,
That once she gave away her sacred love;
Harboring those poisons, taking relief
By subversion and always truth retreats,
As cowards in battle fleeing all signs,
Running from foe and friend. Such is her mind.
Virgins where is the singer; through thick woods
By long paths journeying; but if he could
With some mystics potion future discern,
Removed events that portantly concern;
For now hr with hope as companion goes,
Secretly she was replaced by sorrow,
That masquerading in her angelic guise
Pushes his heart and dreams into the sky,
To better enjoy his body tearing;
Lapping up the words against god swearing,
Screaming, as the singer falls for ten days.
By knowing the future he could allay
What the fates have proclaimed on their spindle;
But that immortal web is not riddled
With holes as earth, our corrupted planet;
It stands immovable, never relents.
All beings alive take pity on him!
The singer arrived one bright morning,
Believing hope sat on his right shoulder
And fortune lay numerous as the boulders
Which speckled the gorges of his journey;
Like the stars burned all his inner yearning.
With confidence he rang the castle door,
Presented his letter moved to the throne,
Passing through curtains into a great hall
And like revelation when heaven falls,
Came tumbling down the red moon and stars.
Every child of Nyx drew their claws
Cutting from the gaps where hope escaped
(Over run by evil its promise breaks)
And set to rip the body from his soul.
They enter him from those slices and holes.
Seeing before him earth's most revered king,
His pregnant love, a prince, the trumpets ring
Announcing his entrance and pleasing song.
On both his sides the musicians form throngs.
Mary's fair face touched the yellow death shade,
As those alive on beds slowly degrade,
Passing away once a breath catches wind.
The singer red his anger expanding,
Fueled by the brooding kin of chaos
He opened his mouth and at Mary thrust
All his feelings in one passionate song,
Striking at she, that his heart and soul wronged.

Pale young virgin bathing in fire
Sin prevails you suspire
Lord above you and devil bellow
Satan on your shoulder steals your soul
Angel above you and Imp bellow
Ponder the lives you have sold
My boy in your stomach grows
His father truly never will know
Pale young virgin my heart you broke
Stole my dreams and murdered my hope
Chose you did money and fame
Aye God is with you strumpet dame
Or ye chose the new over old
Touch me never again by your hands cold
Let your image my eyes not see
Nor the boy in my lifetime meet
Be him always near you beside
Constant reminder of me and your lies
Not soon, but in old age
Sickly, in death you I will not have forgave
You will find true punishment then
In iron bonds upon your limbs bend
In constant pain your soul will cry
A thousand times worse than mine
Demons in hell your feminine parts take
A thousand imps in the devil's name
From your womb will spring and dance
Mock their mother and with blades gash
Pull your organs out from within
Gnash their teeth bloody sinned
You have against God and me
Lucky am I to never have married thee
Heaven above with repentance gleams
You and hell the same color seem
Black and dead Satan holds your chain
Pulls you down once you flee human plains
Pale young virgin bathing in fire
Sin is in you suspire
Lord above you and devil bellow
Satan owns your soul

"In delusion I acted foolishly.
You kill by your hands of immaturity"
So sang the singer to Mary and left.
The prince and king pondered greatly their guest.