Standing by a lake a woman of great beauty casts a spell through her fairness.
If she were a witch a cauldron by her ivory hand would surly be stirred.
Burning on the hearts of valiant men, simmering in its depths the promises she made vows of love so true.
Her sensual lips crimson red painted so from the wounds fatal inflicted on a lover true.
From stormy eyes of desire flash forth bolts of lightning striking any who dare to meet her gaze.
Standing by the lake made from the many tears that with such pain did fall she drinks a brew not of wine but of scores of stolen souls.
She cannot cry nor can she die she rides beyond her spell with the sword of her tongue mankind she wants to fell.