Wicked Hour Moon

there upon ancient hills there .. at a crest therejust beyond the falling breath of whispers in an earthly nest not messed rests my son my son of sons and on scarce occasion in the glow of the wicked hour moon with head canted just so it can be witnessed it can be observed my daughter dancing flittingly above his grave with flowing dress and sorrowful whimpers she begs him so to rise ... rise ... rise and become to life her hair split and parted by the midnight moon gently sweeps the earth that underneath he sleeps her tears drop onto hallowed soil and serve to nourish his rising soul yet they cannot return him here they cannot return him to me they cannot beat again his heart she is his only visitor and night and at all for I am a weakened and cowardly man defeated by a death not my own thus I cannot go there to him ... to the hills beneath the wicked hour moon