She looks so gorgeous hanging there:
Her eyes like glass and silky hair.
The bits of skin that still remain,
Make me think of porcelain...
But it's her bones that speak to me.

The wind eternal kicks up then.
It swells and drops, and back again.
The perfume of rot calls it near,
And it's only then that I can hear...

The wind whispers through her frame,
That's when it tells me her true name.
They call me sick, and though it's true,
I can't stop doing what I do.

There is no love without a name--
We say the words; it's not the same--
And none can speak quite like the wind.
Now what's your name? Shall we begin?