We walk the roads the dead still know, Where moonlight guides and cold winds blow. No home behind, no rest ahead, We carry words for living, dead. Dust and bone beneath our feet, Every path a memory. Names are lost, but truths remain, Carried through loss, through death, through pain. The spirits whisper, soft and low, Of things forgotten, things below. We listen close, we do not stay, Messengers of night and gray. Death is not our enemy, It walks beside us patiently. We cross the lines, return again, Bearing warning, bearing end. No hearth awaits, no caern holds fast, Our future’s written in the past. We move unseen, unheard, unknown, The road our blood, the world our home.
