| White as snow lie my lover’s bones | 
| in the soft, velvet soil of the vault, | 
| And I, his bride, sleep by his side, | 
| To celebrate our sacred love. | 
| At times it seems that I’m existing only | 
| within some fading memory, | 
| But dreams are all sacred, dreams are all holy … - | 
| And, by far, still the safest place for my poor soul to be. | 
| Do not speak of the terrible place | 
| that guided your war-horse and your living stake ! | 
| We are dancing in circles with the dear living dead, | 
| We are blessed with the corpses that coil 'round our necks. | 
| Please, don’t speak of that terrible place, | 
| That once guided your war-horse and your living stake ! | 
| We are taking a walk with our dear walking dead, | 
| Feeling blessed with the corpses that feed on our necks. | 
| I caught a glimpse of myself on the other sphere | 
| and for a fleeting moment I forgot the tears. | 
| Dreams are precious … and — OH — so is sleep, | 
| This, my safest, yet … by far … the most fragile of all retreats. | 
| Do not speak of the terrible place | 
| that guided your war-horse and your living stake ! | 
| We are dancing in circles with the dear living dead. | 
| We are blessed with the corpses that coil 'round our necks. | 
| Please, don’t speak of that terrible place | 
| that once guided your war-horse and your living stake ! | 
| We are taking a walk with our dear walking dead, | 
| Feeling blessed with the corpses that feed on our necks … |