dead bones buried dreaming sleep
and i wander slowly on light feet
ere the day that they should ever wake
and twisting, turning, tempting speak
of death and dreams and the fate they reaped
here to find the solace that they eke
before the ancient dead should stir to make
protest at the iron gates
here were squandered early years
in tests of strength and bloody tears
where the bishop fathered his only son
who fell beneath the wild hunt's run
his ghost, now creeping, comes my way
a pact to make, i must not stray
he bobs and weaves, moans and howls
all coming from his slackened jowls
the bones reach up, pull me astray
the quiet dead warn away.
