The ring I placed upon her olive hand
I found along my travels long ago.
An intricately fashioned golden band
Of intertwining serpent heads. And so,
Enamored of the ring, I spent my wealth
And wits, and youth, possessing it at last.
Not caring for my fortune, life, or health.
Not knowing of its dark and woeful past.
And so to she who waited as I rode
And roamed across the Earth, I gave the thing.
A symbol of our passion I bestowed,
As on her patient hand I slid the ring.
But when the wicked jewel touched her skin,
Her body shook, her eyes burned as a flame.
An ancient horror rose from deep within,
And brandishing a carving knife she came
And leapt upon me, stabbing with the blade.
Deep in my gut she drove the deadly knife.
I pulled it out, a desperate thrust I made.
I slashed towards the ring, but struck my wife.
She shrieked, her body stiffened in surprise
I saw my bride become herself once more.
The dark of countless ages left her eyes,
Which fixed the scarlet pool upon the floor.
There lifeless, oozing from within the band,
The fingers from her pale and ruined hand.