Thick mist arose across the gravestones,
Blotted out the crescent moon,
Flowing white among the bones,
Unholy mist so late in June.
In front of one mighty white angel,
Beneath the cold vapours,
Soil began to part,
Bringing forth five fingers.
Dirty bloodied nails,
Long white fingers;
In death the body pales,
When blood no longer lingers.
Sideward splitting soils speed up,
Now an arm and soon a head,
Then a body coming up,
Feet to complete the living dead.
A deep, black shadow surveys the work,
A new creature of human form,
Evil but meters from the Kirk,
In its wake is left a storm.