i dreamt i was dead in my bed (and my brother was holding my hand)

there is no hell or heaven here,
so the dead must rest with us.
uneasy sleep it is for them,
and queasy we to speak the least.
their bones are brittle and their skin is stinking,
and a crook is death made by each breath that we take.
a crook is death made beside empty graves,
for heaven's a hoax and hell is swelled with hoards of hags.

the dead lay dreaded in our beds,
and if we are bold we may hold their hands and hope for their souls.