Here you will find the Poem The Waiting Watchers of poet Henry Treece
They shall come in the black weathers From the heart of the dead embers, Walking one and two over the hill. And they shall be with you, never farther Than your bedside. At their will The smell of putrefaction lingers And floor is carpetted with rotting hair; Or sheets are torn to shreds By the beaks of dead dry birds And the red blood clots in your cup. Put up your swords! What steel can cut the throat of next year's dream, What tongue is tunes to speak last night's quick scream? Go alone by darkness; Burn the clippings of your nail; Donate a thousand candles. But do as you will, When sun is blind and lamps are lit once more, Two and one, they shall be standing At your door
