The Pleurant

by the Banshee

A stretching sun beats upon a statue of stone
That of a woman shrouded and alone
She appears without a face
She watches over the bodies resting place
The tombs of king and queen
Frightening legend, yet serene
Her name, Pleurant, weeper of the dead
An innocent passerby may she cause to fled
By day she stands alone
By night she is flesh with a howling moan
She passes over the foggy ground
Her footsteps making not a sound
Weeping endless tears for the deceased
Her shroud sways round without a crease
She remains hidden behind her veil
If you dare not believe this tale
Visit that menacing city of stone
Take care and beware of Pleurant's groan
Your skin will crawl and your body shiver
At the weeping rounds she will deliver
Go now and spread the word
At the eerie cry that you have heard
Heed the day of your last breath
Pleurant will mourn you after death

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