The Dead come dancing through the streets; their bones
Make clatter, but their fleshless lips are mute.
Their music hath no song, no need of moans
Or cries. The wind may whistle like a flute,
Bleached wands make drumming on dry skin pulled tight;
No words escape the shrouded band. Their eyes
Are mirrors of obsidian, the light
A pinpoint in the dark, a dart that flies
Straight to the heart of fear - and laughs. They dance,
Macabre visions in a parody
Of life. Prepare ye all for Totentanz!
Embrace the face of Death, your destiny.
All things at last that maw must pass into,
For all things change: in Death doth Life renew.
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