It was her coffin she carved

One of wood and one of stone

But it’s the day she died

That still lies quite unknown

 

And the place of her burial

Still not one can say

But they all know she died

For they never saw her after that day

 

They say she stood in silent places

And wandered through loud courtyards

But though she was not the typical witch

She made the strongest of men cowards

 

Her birth is a mystery to all

But one claim has come to acceptance

That she was found

Buried, in the palace’s cement foundation

 

Her skin, pale from the dark

Her eyes shriveled grey

Her lips thin and soundless

Her voice, stolen by the torment

 

That is the myth, they claim

But though there is disagreement in this

There is another fact that no

No storyteller will ever miss

 

She did not speak.

 

So what made her a witch?

The people said that many lives ago,

In her voiceless state, she woke the dead

And the restless spirits spoke for her

For she held the thing they sought—

The ability to give them sleep

But it was difficulty bought

 

The fact that she couldn’t speak

 Didn’t stop her from falling in love

When she met the prince of the city

Like any love, she knew it would be her death

But it was a truth she had to accept  

 

And so, she did. She fell in love

And it happened like it always did

But she couldn’t help but fall every time

And it was now that she started carving it

 

And when the royal-looking boy proposed

And she could not bring herself to say no

The spirits whispered agreement

And she knew it was time

 

The day before their wedding,

She ordered the servants to remove the floor

And insert that carved, marble casket

Before putting it back once more

And as she tried to sleep, awaiting that day

The spirits were restless

“I’ll do it tomorrow—just give me a break!”

But the argument was pointless

 

And the spirits,

Ready to sleep,

Tore her from her sheets

And dragged her to the floor

 

They found the creases in the panels

They ripped and the tore

And, hands spread, nails digging

In the coffin, they did force her

 

And as they did, every time,

The spirits prodded back the boards

Until they finally found rest

For their waker was again in her cradle

 

Though she always knew it was coming

She never got used to lying there

Always wishing she was dying there

With no voice to make a scream

And a coffin foolishly made of marble

 

But she only ever made it of marble

And the spirits only ever spoke for her

And the prince only ever loved her

And she only ever waited, in the tomb and out of the tomb

 

Over and over, the cycle goes on 

No one able to stop or break it

 

And soon enough, as the prince's future sons 

Are playing in the room 

Just as always 

One will notice a board 

Is just a bit off in the floor