They locked her up for her red hair,
And made her the queen of their dead,
They tried to turn her fires black,
To wash out the stain of her colour,
From their grey and broken world.

Those dead that mourn themselves,
And therefore mourn all creation,
Every living spark and hue abhorred.
Oh Persephone, the Spring is yours,
Not the shadow of your lamentation.

The world sleeps and weeps and burns,
Without the life bringing touch of love,
Possession becomes the solace of time,
But time slips through, grain by grain,
Until all you ever held of her was a dream.