(Verse 1) In the cradle where rot finds bloom, She sits, a saint in scarlet gloom. Petals weep from broken skin, A grace entwined with death within. Veins of gold and filth entwine, A martyr crowned in myceline. The bud she guards, the rot she sows, In stillness deep, her garden grows. (Chorus) Oh, Saint of the Bud, so still, so bright, Cradled in bloom and cursed by blight. Beneath the Haligtree you pray, Where grace and decay softly sway. Oh, blessed be her silent breath— A hymn of rot, a bloom of death. (Verse 2) Limbs like roots, forever curled, She sings no songs of mortal world. Wings unfurled in silent plea, A false divinity bound to a tree. Her throne is not of gold or flame, But spores that whisper out her name. To touch her skin is to be undone, To dance with death, to kneel as one. (Bridge) Lo, the faithful come to see, Their saint entombed in sanctity. Not by light nor fire redeemed, But by the bud, forever dreamed. (Final Chorus) Oh, Saint of the Bud, in silence crowned, With wings of rot and roots unbound. You bloom where grace no longer stays, A flower dead that yet still prays. In crimson hush, her name we cry— Romina lives, though saints may die.
