Gardens dark and unaware,

                 scented passions in the air,

trapped beneath the shrouded moon,

                 fragile flesh shall be consumed.

Time has kept its vigil long,

                all will hear the Siren's Song.

In sweet innocence of Spring,

                Sword shall wield it's direst sting.

Some may gain a harvest fair,

                some a broken heart will bear.

But each one shall feel much smaller,

                for this scourge that is much stronger.