In the churchyard where he lay Lights a moonbeam on his face Aging widow knits and rocks Seeping from a wet cold sun Spoons are bending one by one Graves forgotten far too soon Names are washed into the ruin Six of them Perched upon the tower Waiting for Bells of every hour Ringing for One thousand years Watching as The coffins disappear All ways lead to the same room Galleries of the dead Awaiting ahead With all doors open Through underground tunnels His hands holding his head Erasing footsteps Drying all the holy water Using just its fingertips Shining there in a pitch black church Rose of the apocalypse In the courtyard Waits the hearse Adorning the ancestral curse Thirty-seven signs of death The one who sleeps won't be at rest