Death's disciples won't leave me alone,
they tug at my feet, they chew on my bones.
They nibble the flesh so a little blood comes out first,
they'll suck me dry before they have quenched their thirst.

I hear them breathing and I freeze down to the marrow,
I see my flight route stretch too long and too narrow.
I see my long hair when they're done - oh, it billows,
like a crown, or a halo, but with the dead earth as my pillows
the crown will soon rust, the halo will fade
and I'll forever belong to that from which I was made.