the crowd was small , impatient , and called out for more song ; they paused in their reunion to sing a second one : this song was born in ruins overgrown by knotted pine that tangled up the memories and twisted up the rhymes ; those woods were borne of angry men whose eyes have long-since closed ; their ears will never hear again ; theyve been too-long exposed ; their skin has crawled from flesh and bone and fed the plants around ; their limbs will never stand alone , will never dance around ; the muscles that were once so trim are trimmer , now , indeed ; they fed the roots their nutrients and sated growing seed ; the trees are dank and strangely warped , as if in anguished pain ; the vines that drape like fetters worn , resemble tarnished chains ; the undergrowth is rich with rot , and fungus thrives therein ; their presence tells of things forgot and years that lie between but if you listen for the wind on days too still to break , you may perchance to hear the men if they should deem to speak ; youll hear the cries of horrid death in these , their graven woods ; with every leaf , their passing breath is fully understood ; the trees reflect their mad repose ; the rot reflects their mind ; but who are they ?