A soft whisper moves upon the wind
echoing through the trees at night,
eerie sounds chill the bone to send
one fleeing into the safety of lamp light.

There is a chill upon the air this eve,
as the winds beckon to the souls
of the dead. No telling who shall grieve
this night, walking through the knolls.

They say he died up there amongst those
rolling green hills one night. Slain just as
the birth of the new dawn crept, red as the rose
was his life spilled while the east grew topaz.

Now she weeps with the roses where he sleeps
silently. She sheds crimson tears each night
upon rising, whispering to the winds she weeps
until the coming of the sun to shed its morning light.