Night lays its hand on the edge of the land, Ash in the river, bone in the sand. Something is calling from under the stone— A voice without flesh, a name without home. Low is the wind, Black is the flame. Who walks behind me Whispering my name? Hey-ya, hey-ya, the hollow drum cries, Hey-ya, hey-ya, beneath moonless skies. We turn to the darkness, we answer the sound, The dead keep their rhythm below the ground. Branches bend low though the night has no rain, Footprints appear, then vanish again. The fire burns blue where the old roots entwine, And shadows move slowly in time, in time. Cold is the breath, Still is the flame. Something beside me Whispers my name. Hey-ya, hey-ya, the hollow drum cries, Hey-ya, hey-ya, beneath moonless skies. We turn to the darkness, we answer the sound, The dead keep their rhythm below the ground. Do not look back. Do not speak. The earth remembers Those who seek. Do not look back. Do not run. The night has opened— The night has won. Hey-ya, hey-ya, the hollow drum cries, Hey-ya, hey-ya, and the black river rises. We turn to the darkness, we answer the sound, The dead keep their rhythm below the ground. The fire is fading… The cold has begun… The footsteps are waiting… But I hear no one… Hey-ya… hey-ya… The hollow drum calls… Hey-ya… hey-ya… Through shadows and walls… The moon turns away, The black river sleeps. Beneath the old earth, Something still breathes… [Whispered] Do not look back… Do not look back… Do not run......
