CRADLE OF FILTH Her Ghost in the Fog

The Moon, she hangs like a cruel portrait soft winds whisper the bidding of trees as this tragedy starts with a shattered glass heart and the midnightmare trampling of dreams But on, no tears please Fear and pain may accompany death But it is desire that shepherds it s certainty as we shall She was divinity s creature That kissed in cold mirrors A queen of snow Far beyond compare Lips attuned to symmetry Sought her everywhere Dark liquored eyes An Arabian She shone on watercolours