Across her cheeks time sketches valleys deep.
While she sheds crimson mantles lose from wear.
Off crowded saplings suddenly she snares
A silver-sheen’d adornment. Wrapped she creeps
In silence heeding sister wolves who guide
And guard her – howling warnings in the woods.
Her unseen foe attacks, drawing her blood;
The drops baptize her as death’s noble bride.
Look now her hair garlanded in wreaths of snow
Fans out sailing her ‘cross the River Styx.
With feather’d sandals she treads hellhound’s trail
To reach the River Lethe. All she knows
Is soon forgotten, drunk in her eclipse.
Fate pens her renaissance, a virgin tale.