Hell's Maidens

Down in the deep pits of Hell below,
Where no living have been before,
There is a dancer, a pale young dancer,
Indeed, many more by the score.

They have midnight locks down their backs,
Threaded with wine-red coals.
Their tresses are long and stained with blood,
And their eyes are a flashing gold.

They are all young maidens, their skin smooth and light,
But their eyes are rimmed with black.
Their lips are pale as the fire that burns
Around them, flashing with white.

There is a reason these creatures do no dance for the living,
Yes, a reason indeed.
For their movements are so lithe, their grace so sure
One’s heart would stop—literally.

Every night they dance for their master,
And all those under his rule.
Their milky eyes, no pupils at all
Watch softly, still as plaster.

No applause is heard here, no, not at all,
For the dead can make no sound.
Despite the sweet and sorrowful dance,
In Hell, one could hear a pin fall.

What is it like to see the maidens dance?
Does anyone truly know?
For it is claimed, each can curve like a thread
Or stop as straight as a lance.

A dozen swirl around you, it’s been heard,
It's been whispered by moonlight and into the trees.
They say their shapes blur into a swirl of red and black
And they can flutter like the daintiest bird.

There isn’t much entertainment in Hell, it is true
Except these corpses of ancient lore,
So come, come sit and see,
We’ve saved a place just for you.