SHE'S SENT TO EVERY PENT
Her wings are made of winds,
Burning the bodies and minds, like madness.
There's no one alive who could see what she sees,
Who'd recognize her smile through sadness.
Her eyes are stars at skies,
Crying by cold rains and colored in crimson.
She's drinking kid's blood, like butterflies,
Changing her faces every upcoming season.
Her soul's hidden in the dolls:
Small girls are feeding her by own fleshes.
There's no one alive, who could know what she knows:
Each of the worlds is turning to ashes.
Her song, endlessly long,
Sounds from another side of the graveland.
Let God back to fables, where He does belong:
Sinners aren't scared of the day of the Payment.
She's sent to every pent,
Teasing the death in imagination,
And that one who took her is already dead,
Already made step in right destination.