The dead are always talking in their strange way,
At night when the winds are still, and dew grass
glistens
They are saying things that none should ever say,
And cursed is he who stands at their door and
listens.

Always they meet in a manner strange to see:
The crazy, the dead, and the myriad yet unborn.
And their words are cold as winds from eternity,
And their eyes are wise, and their faces all forlorn.

The dead are filling the young unborn with talk
Of wisdom dug from the mines of bitter years;
They are frightening crazy folk with thoughts that
walk
In the cold and dark, and nameless twisting fears.

I often join them when the lights are done,
And they see the weight of years on my foolish head;
When I am silent they think I'm a crazy one,
But when I talk they know that I am dead.