Land of the Dead - Summoning

Where forest stream went through the wood

And silent all the stens there stood

Of tall trees, moveless, hanging dark

With mottled shadows on on their bark

As faint as deepest sleeper’s breath

An echo came as cold as death

Long are the paths, of shadow made

Where no foot’s print is ever laid

No moon is there, no voice, no sound

Of beating heart;

a sigh profound

Once in each age as each age dies

Alone is heard.

Far, far it lies,

The Land of Waiting where the Dead sit,

In their thought’s shadow, by no moon lit

Upon the plain, there rushed forth and high

Shadows at the dead of night and mirrored in the skies

Far far away beyong might of day

And there lay the land of dead of mortal cold decay