There was a mist,
upon the mountain,
and I saw it,
from the window.
I must resist,
the urge to follow,
the blue lady,
across the meadow.
And if she offers,
a blue rose or hand,
I must decline,
or run as far as I can.
The moth drowns,
in a cup of blood.
I know I saw,
the impending flood.
To look upon her,
and meet her eye,
in the woods,
where children die,
is why the moth,
with its wings undry,
licked off the taste,
of tears gone to waste.
"Shush, child,"
she says to me,
"The children will awaken,
at the strike of three."
To this night,
I hear the grandfather,
cry throughout the house,
and I can hear,
the children inside of him,
giddy to come out.

I can hear the choir,
crying in the night,
shouting inaudibly,
barely kept in harmony.
And though their voices ring,
like chiming bells,
and their shrieks,
shatter my heart,
I cover my ears,
and duck my head,
for the raven squawks,
high in the forked tree.
I mustn't listen.
I mustn't see.
I mustn't hear,
the song of Thana,
for I am afraid.
The shadows which,
beseech me to follow,
are but a trick of the light.
I have lost my mind,
yet my soul is intact,
and they have come,
to rip it from me.

O, I have fathomed my grave!
My mind is buried,
and my bones ache.

Come sweet,
come bitter.
Come warm,
come cold.
Come cheery,
come weary.

Come!
Take me away!