The last poem for this Saturday

Banshee

She breaks the solid

Silence of the night

Wailing for the end

Of ancient families

Or foretelling the demise

Of the great and holy

Ghastly pale of skin

With eyes of fire

Burning with weeping

And desire

For souls

Shrouded and veiled

Bitter tears roll

Down her long and hanging breasts

A foster mother suckling orphans of death

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