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In the black of the night
The moon shrouded in mourning veils
Comes the low and guttural keening
Death becomes this prophet of sorrow
As she seeks those facing tragedy
Huntress of loss, wail your warning
Her face is a porcelain mask
A nightmare of flesh and bone
The sound of her grief wills your heart with dread
No air will escape your throat
As you choke upon your fear
The banshee inches ever closer
Because tonight she cries for you
