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• Artiste: Aesma Daeva
• Titre: The Camp Of Souls
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My white canoe, like the silvery air O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls When the moons of the world are round and fair I paddle back from the Camp of Souls When the wishtonwish in the low swamp grieves Come the dark plumes of the red singing leaves Two hundred times have the moons of spring Rolled over the bright bay's azure breath Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing And painted my face with the paint of death The camp of souls The camp of souls And from thy pipe o'er my corpse there broke The solemn rings of the blue last smoke Two hundred times have the wintry moons Wrapped the dead earth in a blanket white Two hundred times have the wild sky loons Shrieked in the flush of the golden light The camp of souls The camp of souls They chanted above me the song of grief As I took my way to the spirit land For love is the breath of the soul set free So I walk a river that darkly rolls That my spirit may whisper soft to thee Of thine who wait in the Camp of Souls When the bright day laughs, or the wan night grieves Come the dark plumes of red singing leaves