The yellow grasses bend
Embodying the wind
Amidst the stillness,
Oh the stillness
Of the city of the dead.

Thirteen shrines of sorrow,
Hollow shells to mourning,
A city full of shadows
And insubstantial weeping,
No movement save the grasses
In the city of the tranquil.

We wandered there at midday,
Outsiders in the city,
Too plump, and pink, and living
For this high street of the silent.

The howling winds lick hungry
At these monuments to riches,
Names recalled by silver,
Precious gems and gold;
Power has encased them
In unremitting coldness,
The air around unmoving,
Without a breath of life.

Intruders in sterility
We left this immobility,
Encapsulated nothingness
Of bones and dried-up tears.

The yellow grasses bend
Embodying the wind
Amidst the stillness,
Oh the stillness
Of the city of the dead.