A crooked house where the moss won't die,
The walls still weep with the meadow's cry.
A whisper curdles through midnight air,
A prayer for help—but no one's there.
The doors creak wide, but no one's near,
The floorboards groan with weight unclear.
She walks at dusk through searing pain,
A mistress of tragedy, struck again.
Her belly swore—pregnant with child—
They say she lied, her accusations wild.
One night she slept, then felt the burn—
Too late to flee, too slow to learn.
They say she screamed, but no one came,
The fire devoured her name and shame.
Her silence echoed through the skies,
Striking a haunting that never dies.