The black ravens follow me,
whistling along with his verses.
I hum a harmonic dissonance,
as my feet step onto his footprints.
Leading us along in his gruff voice,
we echo his gravedigger's song.
It is not a beautiful requiem,
but a dark and cold elegy,
a haunting ethereal melody,
frosted with my dissonant harmony.
Yet we are silent to the stray passersby,
deaf to music never meant from them;
it's not their time to hear this lullaby.
I thought the gravedigger would beckon others,
"Follow",
as he once beckoned me,
calling them to trudge along,
to this, their gravedigger's song.
But in our lumbering journey,
the birds and I
are his only company.
To where we are destined,
I cannot say.
Perhaps we will burn crimson
and merge into the setting sun.
Maybe we will walk until we cannot,
and the earth claims our shells,
as what remains of us,
travels on.
But only I, I think,
will travel to beyond.
For after this journey of mine
the gravedigger's work
will still be far from done.
And these birds,
though deep comfort to me,
companions of my history,
will not, I hope, follow me,
will not be beckoned on,
by this,
my gravedigger's song.
