Wounds

The coming and the gone
And the reaper's tearful blade
So little time and yet
Within that minute space
The aches of mind and limb
Growing old, quiet dying
If there is one who hears
Give not your scorn to them

Seed, flesh and dust
Be jealous of my wounds

To silence you will sleep
As I watch the barren moon
Fearing the shawled whisperer
I pass the night away
Watching the guiding star
Until my bones grow tight
The fire glows warm in the grate
But the wind blows cold tonight

Seed, flesh and dust
Be jealous of my wounds

Be jealous of my wounds