There was a woman tore off a red velvet gown
And slashed the white skin of her right shoulder
And a crimson zigzag wrote a finger nail hurry.
There was a woman spoke six short words
And quit a life that was old to her
For a life that was new.
There was a woman swore an oath
And gave hoarse whisper to a prayer
And it was all over.
She was a thief and a whore and a kept woman,
She was a thing to be used and played with.
She wore an ancient scarlet sash.
The story is thin and wavering,
White as a face in the first apple blossoms,
White as a birch in the snow of a winter moon.
The story is never told.
There are white lips whisper alone.
There are red lips whisper alone.
In the cool of the old walls,
In the white of the old walls,
The red song is over.
