Within unearthly pinewoods,
beneath the syruped blades,
sleeps our fairest Alabaster
swathed in silk decay.
Burning through unclouded quartz,
her frightened eyes, bright tin-
waxen fingers 'round cold throat,
the molding fruit within.
Still lost in mournful woodlands,
two hundred years gone by,
still cradled by the coffin
that will never let her die.