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In the gardens deep and still,

Beneath the hills of dread,

Bloomed flowers of blood-red thrill,

By darkness fiercely fed.

A beauty cursed and strange,

With petals dark as night,

Where whispers softly range,

And secrets shun the light.

Each scarlet bloom did hold,

A soul, a stolen breath,

Their colors rich and bold,

The price of hidden death.

Erzsébet, cruel and fair,

Did wander there in pride,

Breathing in their crimson air,

From life her blooms derived.

One servant came to see,

At dusk where shadows grew,

And found no beauty free,

But life they darkly drew.

A whispered sigh was heard,

A voice beyond the bloom,

Its murmur faintly stirred,

Of souls bound to their tomb.

Then from the garden’s heart,

Where life and death entwine,

Came tales that would depart

But grow with each design.

Each scarlet bloom did hold,

A soul, a stolen breath,

Their colors rich and bold,

The price of hidden death.

Erzsébet, cruel and fair,

Did wander there in pride,

Breathing in their crimson air,

From life her blooms derived.

Each scarlet bloom did hold,

A soul, a stolen breath,

Their colors rich and bold,

The price of hidden death.

Erzsébet, cruel and fair,

Did wander there in pride,

Breathing in their crimson air,

From life her blooms derived.