Do not whisper to the dead
amongst the leaveless tress and hallowed ground,
as little voices speak softly in your head.

When children tucked tight in bed
speak stories of hanged men, broken and bound
do not whisper to the dead.

A scream at night filled with dread,
followed by Nothing's sound
as little voices speak softly in your head.

Witches bellies are well fed
with children's bones from stoneless mound.
Do not whisper to the dead.

Crows pick at bones, bared, well bled.
Chants call fort His hell hounds
as little voices speak softly in your head.

Wolves that bite and shred
leave Red hood to bear the crown.
Do not whisper to the dead
as little voices speak softly in your head.