A Hundred virgins, stand with grace, their beauty and their youth were laced.
Their lips of soft roses petals, their hair flowing on their shoulders settles.
As they dance their bodies swing and sway, angels tears are wept to fray.
And masked are we whom never see, their beauty and mortality.
Dressed in white, skirts and shoes, a perfect group in unison moves.
They hum along and sweetly smile, as a lonely lad watches awhile.
His heart it beats for all and one, for each her beauty as the morning sun.
Their skin is pale their silouette is white as like the moon, a silver lover in a darkened room.
Until he joins them in the beat, moving his to all their feet.
Alas he’s trampled, broken, done.
As the end comes near the angels song.
He’s left alone, his heavy heart.
Not a maiden took him hence to part.
Not one would take him into her heart.
So home alone he went disgraced.
“Not I” said he, without remorse.
Alone forever more I\'ll be. Solitude of the soliloquy.