When moon is a hollow drum,
And the wind carries teeth,
The marrow-singers stir beneath the frost.
They bind the breath of the unburned,
And wear the skins of the forgotten.
Their howls knot the night,
Pulling wanderers from the warmth of flame.
Do not answer.
Do not follow.
For the echo is not a voice,
But a hunger wearing words.
Ash scatters, and the song falters.
Cinders silence the throat.
Only fire keeps the dead from joining
The choir of rattling jaws.