Thorns of Vespertine - The Book That Spake Her Name

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“One name each moon, or she shall fade –
And ink shall feast where vows are made.”

By candle’s hush and scholar’s pride, a man finds a book that should not speak – but it does. Its pages breathe, its words reply. And within its crimson script lives the soul of a woman long imprisoned, bound by blood and spell to a tome that must feed. To keep her with him, he must give names to the page. But how many names until it asks for his own? Or hers?

“The Book That Spake Her Name” is a tragic duet between man and spirit, lover and cursed text, sung in strict four-line stanzas of Shakespearean cadence. It is a tale of love born in ink and lost in sacrifice – a lament for those who would write against time.

This is Thorns of Vespertine writing with the blood of the forgotten – a ballad for the bled and the bound.

• Full lyrics penned below
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In dustèd shelf of yew and bone,
He found a tome that breathed alone.
No scribe had mark’d its crimson page –
Yet ink did stir as if with rage.

O wondrous book! What magic dost thou bear,
To scrawl my thoughts as though thou wert aware?
Whose hand doth write, whose voice I cannot see –
Yet every line doth speak most sweet to me.

Good sir, I lie within this page-bound cell,
Where time is none, and silence casteth spell.
I once was flesh – a maiden fair and wise…
But now I dwell where written shadow lies.

How cam’st thou thus, imprisoned soul in ink?
What curse hath made thee live but not to think?
Thy words do move me – soft, and sad, and warm.
I feel thy breath in every letter’s form.

A warlock seal’d me with a spell profane,
And wrote me down to bind me with a name.
Each moon he fed the tome a soul, a breath –
To keep me whole, and stave the page of death.

Then I shall guard thee, love, with heart and will –
No name I’ll give, no soul I’ll let it kill.
Let moonlight pass, let silence have its way –
Thou shalt not fade, if I but bid thee stay.

O fool, though kind – the spell cares not for vow.
The book must feed, or else it feeds on thou.
One name must die each moon’s returning flame –
Or ink shall turn thy blood into thy name.

Then take some wretch, some tyrant, thief, or knave!
Not mine, not thine, let murder feed the grave.
I’ll write the name – just one – to buy us breath,
To stay thy doom, to stay the tongue of death.

Thou lov’st me now – but what shall love become,
When names run out, and fate grows cold and dumb?
Wilt thou still weep when blood doth wet thy pen?
Or shall thou write the name of dearest men?

No more, no more! This parchment bleeds my shame –
Each letter drawn becomes another name.
I see thy face in every stroke I make…
Yet know I not how much my soul can take.

Then write me one last time, and make it so –
The name to end, to silence, and to go.
I’d rather fade, than see thee damn thy line –
So write my name, and close the cursed spine.