Mists rise in the haunted gloom of an ever darkening night,
While the moon shines down on pale silk, glistening purest white
And standing in the dismal ruin of the day,
A woman, tried and exiled, for refusing to obey.
She does her best to run, to spare herself the pain.
For her suffering and her trials all had proved in vain.
Though she tried to warn them, with letter, word, and deed,
They simply mocked and scorned her - not a one of them took heed.
Sent beyond the borders, of home and countryside
Locked away from everything, a part of her had died.
Now, weeping, as she walks these grim, tormented grounds
A youthful Banshee starts to wail, a cruelly mournful sound.
For, when the maiden exile joyously came home
She found it but a ruin, and must now forever roam.