She was born a daughter of the Church,
And guided by the hand of a priest.
Her mother gave her the love and faith;
But the priest taught her lies of the Beast.

When the bells make way for silence’s song,
The priest resumes his rhapsody’s dreams.
Her mother’s gone, no help from her now;
All alone with the false priest, she screams.

The pious hypocrite holds a cross;
He whips at her face with the Bible;
He laughs at her dripping maiden-blood
And pounds her head to the black idol.

The day has died. She’s chained to the stake
And bathed with the eager-boiling pitch.
The “faithful” then gather and taunt her
While she’s burned at the stake as a “witch.”

Nothing but her blackened corpse remains:
Alone with the sound of the last silence.