The trees are bending in the storm,
And I am easily overcome.
The night has fallen on the lawn,
It’s howling, “God, what have I done?
What have I done!”
The breath of thunder on my neck,
I find I’m praying to the Moon,
“Say, lay some blessed peace on me.
I know my judgement’s coming soon.
It’s coming soon!”
And I—
I don’t believe, I don’t believe
In the things—
The things, the things that follow me.
A scrap of linen on the wind,
Your face is burning through the leaves.
The distant howls begin again,
My ghosts will find their way to me,
Their way to me!
And I—
I don’t believe, I don’t believe
In the things—
The things, the things that follow me.
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