In my dreams the spirits float far and fast ahead,
Delivering all the souls of the deceased in trips,
Carried to the one abyss their bones still hide the red,
Keep the truth when they are dead, so they are torn as sticks.
These bones carry the truth till they meet one with life,
Reach the fields and the dead part all their fear
With a silence that is deft they use a hatchet or a knife,
So that none can tell that death's dark spirit is quite near.
In the meadow none can see that foot prints have been made,
They walk until dawn is come, so they all must roam.
Misty and translucent, above the earth of wet brown clay,
They shall keep walking until they've found deaths home.
