My crumbling walls are etched with voice:
hieroglyphs depicting song, wisdom, cruelty,
fusing cries and screams not hers.

Bodily fluids stained my floors as paint,
dark joys sealed, lacquering her soul.
Six hundred fell by her hand, she who loved me.

My grounds hide now, as they then, aging bones.
I became my lady's prison after trial,
restraining her desires, ensuring desolation.

Praying for revenge and light, she sang
and rambled as though they interchanged,
twisted dark with salvation water.

When the sun casts egress shadows on my face
she remains, silhouette searching, insatiable,
gazing at the village below.

No women from nearby come as tourists,
though some may be curious to glimpse her
just in case rumor is fact.