The Grave And The Nightspirit Poem by Agatha Eliza

Pale eyelids of night closed for the last time
petrifying all angels with white pouring tears,
while infernal voices from within call for sin
on rusty strings of lyre, a sad serenade begins.

Begone was then a sharp flight of surly ravens,
and a sudden drift of memory troubled the mind
of obscure dead spots, where in forlorn gardens
sinister blood of pagan gods came back as rain.

Ageless and painful chains had fate set for her
beneath such lonesome cradle in peaceful grave,
the wind can't whisper: forgive her, forgive her
when she spoted the demon in shards of a mirror.

She's just an angel dancing through the shadows
with black wings, pressed by burdens of solitude
taken into the arms of night for a somber dance,
her king's the grave and she's the nightspirit.