The grief of a madwoman 
Serenades us, "dead, dead, dead!". 
She cries, "My sweet smelling buds 
Were ripped from my marriage bed". 

Her lament keeps all awake, 
Even the deceased, whose skulls 
Lay in grass and stones that crack 
Above their feet. Useless lull! 

Is her madness her own fault? 
Was it beguiled by hate? 
Was it by the hand of man, 
Or drawn from the pen of fate?  

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