Sitting upon the stones of the dead,

A lonely king sings a mournful tune,

A lullaby to those settled in bed,

Whose notes float above as the fog floats to the moon.

.

He lulls his subjects to sleep at night,

The notes trilling from his lips,

Desperate to catch the ear of one alive,

And stop the blood cold, and watch the soul rip.

.

Death’s rule is a lonely sovereignty

So occasionally he flits to the world of those who live.

Careful not to overdo and leave the world in living poverty,

He goes only to those whose souls are ready to give.

.

He breathes in them his cold breath of death

And their relieved sighs let him know

He’s chosen the ones who are weary of life’s stress,

.

The ones who have been preparing to go.

This king takes them to their new places of slumber

Where they can finally be at peace;

He is content now with the number

Of sleeping subjects, so for one more night his mind is eased.