They are there in the thickening shadow.
The dead are not under the earth:
They are not in the tree that rustles,
They are in the wood that groans,
They are in the water that runs
They are in the water that sleeps
They are in the hunt, they are in the crowd
The dead are not dead.
They are in the breast of the woman
They are in the child who is wailing
And in the firebrand that flames
The dead are not under the earth
They are in the fire that is dying
They are in the grasses that weep
They are in the whimpering rocks
They are in the forest, they aren’t in the house
The dead are not dead.
