In the darkness her figure dances, with crimson lips like a curse, nocturnal eyes, skin like a shooting star, and a murmur that drives the moon mad.
She was a maiden, she was a shadow, she was a legend, in fortresses where time is consumed, she sips memories, withered dreams and in her embrace, death hides.
No cross can ward her off, nor prayer help her, her soul is an echo of forgotten eras, she wanders among tombs, her laughter slipping like a knife across sleeping necks.
She savors pain with hidden tenderness and in each bite she leaves poetry, for her curse is not a mere formula it is art, it is longing, it is melancholy.