My silken dresses are made of coffins
You never had a future
Plunged into boiling water
Mulberry, momento mori
The message is within you
White and crimson berries are bleeding on my fingers
Growing your white wings
Though you will never fly
Sleep soundly under branches
For it is not your intention
To soon die
A felted capsule
A strength unrivaled
A sheen with magic lustre
A hope you cast in circles
I used to value all those silken dresses
But now the only feeling
Is the texture of a deathbed