a poem by Myra Sophia Dedekind

Cheeks like molten silver
Eyes as clear as glass
Her wings eternally folded
Calling the children to mass

Beckoned by the choir
The glorious ancient tunes
The Lady and her squire
Start crawling from their tombs

And the feather falling heavy
Hearts on scales, weighing the levy
Little bad man quivers in fear
The day of reckoning is here