The holy sole sound of a song in our soul,
The soft sour thought of a sorry loud woe,
Resounding through the fjord’s foul frosty floe.
The look in the eyes of a lonely young doe,
The foulness of the mourning of a lousy old foe,
Clouding the song’s way to our only oversoul.
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Walking alone through rows of gray graves,
Listening to the croaks of black crows, dark slaves,
The sky’s a deep scarlet, the clouds a rich crimson,
The cries of the dead could be heard in the distance.
Two shadows are strolling, holding their hands,
Whatever they want, no one understands,
A man and a man, a woman and a woman,
The two might just be a man and a woman.
Dark figures are haunting the land of the dead,
Tainting the ground where so many bled,
Among the gray graves the two leave a feather
Walking alone, but absolutely together.
"Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance." - Carl Sandburg 