Shrine of The Crows - A Song Beneath The Skin

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The cattails bowed their heads,
When the moon turns black and the river’s red.
Ain’t no mirror in the water’s skin,
It doesn’t reflect, it lures you in.

There’s a song that hums beneath the skin,
A tune I swear I’ve heard within.
Oh, the bayou sings in tongues of bone,
Sweet as rot, soft as moan.
Every secret it swallows whole,
Feeds the roots, forgets the soul.

There’s an old man hummin’ in the willow shade,
Says the swamp keeps count of the deals we made.
Fish don’t bite, but the ghosts still feed,
And the moss grows thick where the dead men bleed.

My mama said never follow that sound,
But the hum got low, and I turned around.
Now the frogs all croak in the same old key,
And the muck knows more than it should of me.

The reeds will sway, the willows weep,
And what they take, they mean to keep.

The preachers came with holy hands,
They blessed the earth they couldn’t understand.
They built their altars where the shadows play,
But their hymns awoke something ancient in the decay.

Their faith failed when the levee broke,
Their candles drowned, their sermons choked.
They called it wrath, they called it doom,
The graves rose, every home became a tomb.

Oh, the bayou sings in tongues of bone,
Sweet as rot, soft as moan.
Every secret it swallows whole,
Feeds the roots, forgets the soul.

1961/7500

There’s a hum in the trees where the breath won’t go, The Tupelo and cypress lean in, the mud breathes slow, The world turns black where the fireflies glow. I heard a hymn in the cattail reeds, Soft as blood, and twice as deep. The cattails bowed their heads, When the moon turns black and the river’s red. Ain’t no mirror in the water’s skin, It doesn’t reflect, it lures you in. There’s a song that hums beneath the skin, A tune I swear I’ve heard within. Oh, the bayou sings in tongues of bone, Sweet as rot, soft as moan. Every secret it swallows whole, Feeds the roots, forgets the soul. There’s an old man hummin’ in the willow shade, Says the swamp keeps count of the deals we made. Fish don’t bite, but the ghosts still feed, And the moss grows thick where the dead men bleed. My mama said never follow that sound, But the hum got low, and I turned around. Now the frogs all croak in the same old key, And the muck knows more than it should of me. There’s a song that hums beneath the skin, A tune I swear I’ve heard within. Oh, the bayou sings in tongues of bone, Sweet as rot, soft as moan. Every secret it swallows whole, Feeds the roots, forgets the soul. The reeds will sway, the willows weep, And what they take, they mean to keep. The preachers came with holy hands, They blessed the earth they couldn’t understand. They built their altars where the shadows play, But their hymns awoke something ancient in the decay. Their faith failed when the levee broke, Their candles drowned, their sermons choked. They called it wrath, they called it doom, The graves rose, every home became a tomb. There’s a song that hums beneath the skin, A tune I swear I’ve heard within. Oh, the bayou sings in tongues of bone, Sweet as rot, soft as moan. Every secret it swallows whole, Feeds the roots, forgets the soul. Oh, the bayou sings in tongues of bone, Sweet as rot, soft as moan. Every secret it swallows whole, Feeds the roots, forgets the soul.

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