Ah
Mother, the dead
Mother, the dead are deafening now.
The dead are like starlings in a tree.
        I clap my hands once.
        They rise in the air.
        They rise in a flock.
        They darken the sky.
        They turn on the wing.
        They turn again on the wing.
Mother, the dead are calling to me

Singing

Ah
Mother, the dead
Mother, the dead are deafening now.
The dead have come back to the tree.
        I clap my hands again.
        They talk among themselves.
        I raise my bow to the sky.
        They turn their backs to my bow.
        I shoot arrows at the dead.
        All my arrows fall short.
Mother, the dead are laughing at me

Singing