Pretty little maidens
give their hearts to Satan,
riddled, right from the start,
with curiosity,
enter the serpent-king,
with a fondness for girls,
threats to their livelihood,
to their families, to God,
tragically mean nothing,
having nothing to lose,
yet, their virgin cotton
sheets lack a drop of blood.
Linger on my finger
to point the way below,
intrigued by his power,
his stately appearance,
tranquil butterflies float
with sorcery above
the eternal daemon,
the spirit of magic,
little do they attempt
to resist the devil,
even though they know him,
they know no one greater.
Maidens in the garden
dance with the butterflies,
ask nothing but to love,
support and understand,
if he be the devil,
no man could be the worse,
despite hands of marriage,
vows of eternal love,
even little women
know to question such words,
no vow of commitment
lasts compared to Satan,
simply put, men are dust
to his eternal flame.
Give me the strength to beat
a man into despair,
in his hope to offer
lifelong security,
villains in sheep's clothing,
when Satan tells a lie,
even he turns crimson,
in silent contrition.
Their hearts may boil in pitch,
in brimstone, in cinders,
heavy bearing the weight
of tormented children,
even they know Satan
offers his protection,
in lands destroyed by war,
where ordinary men
rape women as trophies,
as victims of conquest.
Hearts bound to Heaven find
no safety on this earth,
everywhere they may go,
their prayers go unanswered,
ask them what is the point
in believing in God,
remembering their youth
on swings with their mothers,
tell them how their feet point
to Heaven and blue skies,
singed to the bone, marrow
exposed, they only laugh.
To say that they suspect
you offer only lies,
only tall tales, legends,
myths and outright fictions...
Satan offers them peace,
the one thing maidens lack,
an awareness to tell
the difference between truth,
terrible and brutal
in its beauty and strength,
and the lies that men tell
to persuade girls to bed,
not even their fathers,
uncles, brothers spare them.
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