Harvester, they whisper as she passes,

Her bone white mask upon her face,

They cast pale rose scented ashes,

In hopes that she'll leave it in place. 

Gatherer of souls, they call her, The one who can kill with a look,

Her hair, in coils, growing darker,

Eyes bright behind the mask's hook.

Her anger, the terror men fear,

Not as they cower away,

But with each passing year,

They feel as their bodies decay.

Disease is the weapon she wields,

And chaos follows in its wake,

Cutting through pathetic shields,

And every vaccine man can make.