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Image for the poem Dead Men Have no Graves

Dead Men Have no Graves

Close your eyes, hear the cries
Feel the earth move through the air...
And to your sides, tattered oak lies
Caressing each strand of hair
 
Dirty hands are digging land
The hole grows ever deep
Your breath is ailing, your screams are failing
With every shoveled heap
 
No man or beast has ever grasped
The handle of a spade
It seems the man who's shoveling land
Is sleeping in the grave
 
Dirty hands are digging land
The hole grows ever deep
I call upon the ghosts of old
Wake up from your sleep!
 
A choir singing, Sunday's ringing
The witching hour's at hand
Come with me, spirit free
Your wish is my command  
 
Dirty hands are digging land  
The hole grows ever deep
Not one sound I hear from the ground
No, not a peep
 
A crowd appears, their faces in tears
We're staring into the bed
But what we see beneath the debris
A man not yet dead
 
Dirty hands are digging land
The hole grows ever deep
We've nailed the good upon this wood
The rest is yours to reap
 
Your fists are knocking, the coffin is locking
You're hungry for the bell
No rope or string, no alarming ring
Can save you from the pits of hell.
Written by Thetravelingfairy
Published
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