Ghosts walk on words
no mere echoes beckon;
theses are the real,
unaltered by time.
On solid pages beyond revision
they pass through the walls
of style and of age.

Sing songs, Old Ghosts
beyond carnal corruption.
Speak now the the remnant left
here in the realm
of the fluid and living
who clay-footed trample
on the ground
where once like them you tread.