We are the dead, we have no eyes;
we see your fears, we know your lies.
We are the black of your blackest dreams,
we are the rattling bones, the screams.
When you're alone, we are the shock;
the telephone or the late-night knock.
The fair without and the foul within;
we know, we know your deepest sin.
We are the footstep on the stair,
the whispered words when no one's near.
We are the drunken father's rage,
and, in the cellar, we are the cage.
We are the dead who never rest;
we snatch the baby from the breast.
We are the fox, the bat, the owl,
the tigerish snarl and the wolfish howl.
We are the bruised and battered wives,
the tragedy of unlived lives.
We are the junkies from the street;
we are their pain and their defeat.
We are the millions dead in war;
we are the generals' lust for more.
We are the children you can't save,
we are the stench of the unmarked grave.
With no way forward and no way back,
we hang from trees, our faces black;
we are the canker in the bud,
the teenage girl in her bath of blood.
We know your lies, we see your fear;
we're coming...
we're coming...
we're closer...
we're here!
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