What false words of comfort can be given
	to this desecrated corpse, flesh rotted,
	corrupted by a poisoned soul now dead,
	sealed in the grave of a walking coffin.
	This sacrilege continues as if death
	had never touched this young Persephone,
	killing dreams of eternal spring that we
	sweep from our minds as we draw our next breath.
	Puppet animation of carrion,
	she moves unnoticed within our bright world,
	shielding lifeless winters within her eyes.
	May the Pantheon protect this cold one,
	bringing safe harbor to this unsound girl.
	Small respite from each little death she dies.