Wake

Row row row down that

dark and winding stream

where the dead float bobbing

and where the wicked but dream.

Row row row past the

hanging heretics from trees

where once a light-seeker betook

himself on the water and breeze.

Row row row under the

pale moon, clouds, and stars

whose light casts phantoms

who keen from past scars.

Row row row boatman

on that whispering stream

where once you betook yourself

to go rowing among the bream.

Row row rowing down

to the stream mouth, the lake,

you slew the poor fishing village

just for sweet father pious's sake.

Row row row demon past

the carrion, blood, and creepers

your hands red when later you

hanged the leftover weepers.

Row row row boatman row

down the unending stream

where there is no light, only death

of the innocent, and the wicked's guilty scream.