Between stalks of grass
Phosphorescent green
In a dark clearing
With air cold as glass
Hear the sound of bones
Clicking with the chill
Starting a quiet drill
Like ossicle stones
You must
Beware
Of the
Fact that
Appearance is not always truth my friend
Behind the cold graves
Shady shapes in brown
Hoods are kneeling down
With lamenting waves
See the parias’ tears
Falling for cities
Whose hypocrisies
Have burnt all their peers
You must
Beware
Of the
Fact that
Mourning witches are not monsters my friend
JSD
BΑCCHOPITHÈQVE 