Here, in these chains of flowers, she weeps.

Here, in this tower of stone, she sleeps.

Melisand, the bride, gowned in white,

The withered rose no longer bright.

There, the shroud of thorns, chokes the tower.

There, the suffocating weed, shows no flower.

And Melisand, the bride, lies within,

The withered rose free of sin.

Then, in days of old, she laughs and smiles.

Then, crowned in flowers, of marriage style.

Melisand, the bride, gowned in white,

The youthful rose full of light.

Now, a hero comes, to save her life.

Now, fighting the thorns, to claim a wife.

Melisand, the bride, lies within,

The dying rose still free of sin.

Alas, he cannot know, she is already gone.

Alas, through growing walls, he battles on.

And Melisand, the bride, in her shroud of white,

With the dead rose upon her breast, fades from sight.

But, she departs not, unaware her time is done.

But, she remains, spirit and tower now as one.

Melisand, the bride, apparition in white,

The eternal rose, roams and cries at night.