Winter crawls through

High stone crooks of my town.

The weeping trees

And hardening ground

Hold no place 

For game,

Nor fowl.

 

Instead form the parchment 

Of fear for all found.

Faced in the sight

Of that awful sound;

Our Lady of Death,

Who dances around.

Twixt onyx fingers

Wrought hard in ice, drowned.

 

Rivers of blood, 

Of men given to bow,

Till their bones are so

As the devils estate,

Burned black

With the fires

Of Hells only gate,

And spirits abound

As bone turns to air

The breath of the mad-man;

The toll of the fare.