A scream pierces through the darkened night,
as high-pitched shrills sound like distorted battle-horns,
wicked drums roar from peaks out of sight,
and the wind, cold as ice, starts its ignominious soar.

She lies pale and naked on the top of the hill,
surrounded by fragments of leaves now dead,
ragged trees have fallen where she silently lies still;
with a single white dove cold and lifeless beside her head.

Her eyes, wide open, stare into the dark grey skies above;
absent, distant, empty; as if entirely departed.
In her mouth, lips parted, lies a single silk glove,
Untouched; kept in place as by rigor mortis she's hardened.

Her face has frozen in a wicked expression,
almost grinning evilly into nothingness above;
never to be saved by divine resurrection,
for ever banished from the sacred shelters of love.

If one listens carefully into the wind's ceaseless soar,
there echoes a song of deep, deleterious mourning;
the sounds spread like the wings on her back once did,
permeating the air with blackened forewarnings.

The night grows ever darker as more voices start to sing,
the song now as strong as the most powerful of kings;
it's surely the ever most frightening of all things,
the death of an angel, the loss of its wings.