The dead are with us without,

                               within.

Around they circle, spiral in

                            and out.

Devil, dervish, angel

Twirling, burrowing, flying,

their frosty breaths

like overhanging fog

on our misty days.

A light, my kingdom -

fair exchange.

If only subterra

divulged her young

these six score days

and seven,

it would be good

and separate itself

each from heaven

particularly.

As of old

renew my days

that I may be similar.

Image me;

imagine we

are One

now Two.

What shall we do?

Desire     Eat

Speak     Plant

Know      Sow

Kill          Till

All this stays

to the end of days.

The dead are with us still.