Caught in the teeth of an oral tradition told by old crows

You say that I’m pure so long as my little white rose

Remains concealed and untouched and even in union

I fear I’ll never break free from the foggy delusion

That I answer to hypocrisy to determine my worth

That with each breath I gasp I’m here but to give birth

To the manifestation of my fears swept aside

And the woman who held them most certainly died

When the love of her life slowly wasted away

And she buried herself and reburies each day

Your silver serpent tongue may tell me one thing

But you only pray when you want something.