Burning daylight to save her soul from pain;
the sputtering candle,
whose brief outing casts light in vain.
This strutting player now no longer sees
the need for havoc wreaked
to wreath in Dunsinane trees
the gloomy portents she chooses to ignore;
no direst cruelty needs
to walk through that forseen door,
no crone's prophecy bleeds dry the heart
when reluctant feet and fear
steal freedom, instill false start.
Can't remove that damned and bloody spot;
the guilt of things undone,
loose hereafter strands inducing rot.
None must the suffered lady witness
her plot to downfall hidden,
daggering her distress.
And finally to sit that hated throne
secure her father's fate;
to die afraid, cold and alone.