And in the monastery garden sat a woman with a book
A manuscript that lay within her frail and trembling arms
She looked around her nervously as guilt rose in her heart
But the sway of curiosity had drawn her out too far
She wavered on the threshold of a dangerous decision
For this dark tome was no for human eyes to ever read
The pages dripped with legions of persuasive words and visions
So the volume had been hidden well, but now it had been freed
For no apparent reason had the woman been drawn in
Perhaps it was a twist of fate, an absence of real thought
She wandered to a room that before she'd never been
And all at once the interest of her senses had been caught
For no apparent reason had the women been drawn in
Where rows of dusty books lay in an ominous display
And now she sat alone in the concealment of the night
She was hungry now to liberate the writings from their cage
The glimmer of a feeble moon provided her with light
As she opened up the cover and began to read the page
Fly, soul, the body's guest,
Upon your impish arrant
Let none be guiled by false confession
Truth shall be your warrant
Fly soul for your body must die
Fly soul for your body must die
