And whilst this knowledge was among men conferred

It was by all women but one, inferred,

For she somehow knew in advance

What would, in the end, be their stance,

Whether she played a part in all this

Or kept her hands unsoiled by blood,

None will ever know for she drowns in a flood

Of passion and torment with a single kiss,

Any and all who rise against her will

Turning potential saviors ever still,

Her power is great, her wickedness greater;

Now of all our hearts she is the curator.


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