She walked where the lamplight flickered low,
A shadow spun in lace and woe.
A whisper of silk, a sigh in the air,
A name half-spoken in half-lit despair.

Her lips, a promise, sweet as a sin,
Her hands, a snare that drew men in.
They drank from her cup, they drowned in her gaze,
They danced in her arms till the end of their days.

She spun her web with beauty’s thread,
A glance, a touch, a vow well-fed.
Five hearts claimed, five secrets kept,
Five graves deep while the whispers crept.

She wept in black, veiled in grace,
A single tear traced down her face.
Yet behind the mourning, behind the cries,
Lurked something quiet, something wise.

Was it fate that took them, or was it design?
A hand unseen, a touch divine?
Was it love that cursed them, or love they sought,
A passion too fierce, a price dearly bought?

One by one, the mourners came,
Lit candles bright, spoke her name.
But the air stood thick with something unsaid,
A lullaby hummed for the newly dead.

Her beauty lingered, her legend grew,
Men still swore that her love was true.
And yet, five rings, five men, five sighs,
All faded beneath her midnight eyes.

No rope was tied, no justice fell,
Only silence, a knowing spell.
For some women are fire, too wild to tame,
And some deaths are quiet, with no one to blame.