Could it be true?
Was she the tormented one that stole the night?
Was she the evil of which we dare not speak?
The soul that cursed the men of yore
The little maiden with the heart of poison and no soul
The maiden whose beauty was unmatched
A marvelous creation of the god unknown
Blistering beneath the moon of vice

No man withstood her trial of survival
Meeting their doom after one glance into her eyes
Drowning in insanity, for her angelic posture was beyond comparison to anything of mortal race
A figure trapping the lads in their imagination
Their fascination and belief to make her of their own

But what cruelty was it that all had failed
And none have won her love
Her love that echoed agony and misfortune with it bound

I was not different from all the rest
Enchanted by her marble chest and velvet skin
Her flowing silken hair
That softly touched the crimson gown
And her mystifying emerald-green eyes
Filled me, with enchanting wonder

We met beneath that same old maiden we called moon
And blessed were by the spirits of the night
Embraced each other and left no place for reason
Drunk on emotions and desires to join our souls for ever more