Inside this garden darkly creeping,
My life has drifted down,
Each muted voice is softly weeping,
no respite have they found.
Would not eternity be gentle?
Would not death be so kind?
How cold, this stone, I'm not alone,
each spirit hears the sound...
Of beating, beating, beating, beating,
the Heart cannot forget,
as footsteps tread this swollen earth,
abandoned souls can never rest.