No name, no face, no voice, no heart.
Monsters are prowling in the winter’s dark.
They want, they need. They know no end.
Floating, gliding; always leaving their mark.
Listen to those who speak wise words
For they know when the spirit world has stirred.
So when ghouls moan in midnight black,
The wise men will translate those sounds unheard.
One night I felt a spectre’s screech.
It was cold and violent, but echoed grief
Like an old bell mourning friends past.
Once the audience, now I felt the thief.
A silent sound, this work of art
Which broke through my dreams and woke me with start.
I closed my eyes–but then I saw
“No name, no face, no voice, no heart.”