A wind has come up from afar
Like a worn out cape round some faded name
Memorandum for a key and green roof
Like a sole voice singing in the marshy dusk:
The crowds of the grave, they will return
The crowds of the grave, they will return
The crowds of the grave, they will return
To Camuanorghia!

There’s no crossing though the track has branched off
It’s the west winking sickly and his creature appears
It’s the scorchèd hide of the lame and the blind
A sole voice singing in the desert dusk:
The crowds of the grave: they will return,
Led by the cry of a nightingale born
Led by the cry of a nightingale born
Led by the cry of a nightingale still-born
In Camuanorghia.

A sole voice singing in the passing-bell-dusk:
The crowds of the grave: they shall return:
Led by the cry of a nightingale born
Led by the cry of a nightingale still-born
In Camuanorghia.