She lies inside her coffin:
A case of ice and glass,
With legs of smoothest ivory,
And handles carved of brass.
Porcelain, her skin shines;
They pick her up with ease,
Humming mournful, sadly songs,
Procession through the trees.
Her lips a bow of pearl pink,
Like life still makes her smile,
The forest seems to bid her 'night',
As they march another mile.
Her hair an inky, blackish mass,
Ebony and pure,
I watch her as she's carried by,
And wish there were a cure.
My love lies in a coffin.
This is no fairy tale.
There is no cure to this disease.
Any tries will fail.
They told me she'd recover.
I guess the doctors lied.
The only thing I know for sure:
Is that my love has died.
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