Do you not hear the bells, my daughter,
tolling in the hills?
That is Death’s herald, daughter.
Feel how the night wind chills!
Do you not mark the sweet knells, daughter,
carried by the wind?
Death rides his gory horse to us,
your contract to rescind.
I stand above the place you lay. My tears will see me drowned,
for you have sold your soul to be once more above the ground.
And even now the vermin flee your coffin in surprise,
the earth beneath me churns and breaks and bubbles at your rise.
Now flesh and sinew cover bones once yellowed, moldy, black,
Your lovely hand breaks free and now there is no turning back.
And Death now swings his spectral scythe, and I must take your place,
but not before you kiss me once more on my ancient face.
The lack of rotting carrion no longer scents your sighs.
And Death himself has fallen for the beauty in your eyes.
The bells now tell of Death’s new bride. Be happy, and be well!
Now let my warming soul descend, your substitute in hell.