O' ye Countess draped in sorrow
who grasp fear of coming morrow.
With eyes like those of torment slave,
sad innocence, yet thyself she gave.
She lives in shadows of early sun cast
as if no soul of solstice passed.
Gentles thy heart that long to be seen,
urge thine life into worlds between.
Withering away like a sunflower in shade,
consumed by life, embarrassed and afraid.
But thy lives only bitter affliction
crossed my path into my reflection.
Baring the weight of worlds upon thee,
living life as it meant to be.
But this be not a wakeful day,
the broad stream bore her far away.
In the shadows thus she remain,
upon the ledge thy window pane.
She looks out on this tainted land,
they know not understand,
but O' ye Countess draped in despair;
sight of her like stillness in the air.