A crimson dawn ignites the fractured sky,
Where ancient steel awakens flesh anew.
The Witchblade sings; its tendrils twist and pry,
A living weapon bound to blood and rue.

Her pulse ignites with fury’s searing flame,
Each heartbeat carved by fate’s relentless hand.
A mother, warrior—titles both the same—
She bears the blade no soul could understand.

Through shadows thick with monsters born of sin,
Her figure cuts a path both fierce and bright.
A savior clad in anguish wrapped within,
Yet radiant against the endless night.

The blade may scar, but courage never dies—
A fierce resolve beneath unyielding skies.