From deep down south death came Carries a black coffin on his back Searches for blood is his name Jealous of life shall drink his lack Across a graveyard of green swirling mist at night Over bitter frosted river rock snow Is persecuted by our sun if he moves in light Man undead but does not know Repetitious hell of diurnal occupation done People tired and their limbs go to sleep Then from careful hiding ghosts begun Not seen in mirrors he can creep Taut white skin the village pet Daughter of love lost in easy dream Called his bride is what she shall get Wound sweet twin red stream. By Tiral Saa
Posted on: Fri, 14 Mar 2014 13:00:06 +0000
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