Blinded by scent in this nocturnal crypt
this wood is her womb, she knows every plant
on this winding path she straightens her cant
though her instinct is agile, blunt is her tip

The bow is strung, weighted by worlds
nocked up, the chaste huntress shivers
sure of her shot, none remain in her quiver
the dark moon’s voyage, no sails unfurled

Night air is misty, no fire will catch
the catgut is tight, not more than her lip
her body is shaking, she steadies her grip
the thicker the air, the slower the fletch

In a motion as quick, an archer’s anchor
her sites are set, the target subdued
If lust is poison, this batch is brewed;
her hands let fly her sharpened rancor.

For esteem we tumble, from pride we fall
from grace we crumble, for death we stall.

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