I got on a tangent and rewrote an old 14th century folk ballad named “The Unquiet Grave” for Azeroth:
Bitter wind doth blow from above,
An’ down falls the cold rain today;
I never had but one true-love,
By scourge were they taken away.I’ll do as much for my true-love
As any living lover may;
I’ll sit and wait all at our tryst-hill
For all dark night’n scorching long days.With twelvemonth an’ a day being up,
The undead at last returned to speak:
“Why does thou weep upon our hill,
And refuse all food ‘an sleep?”“ ‘Tis for you I wait, no matter cold rain o’er my brow drips;
Long shall I refuse all chance of food an’ sleep,
For I crave one kiss of your dead-pale lips,
And that is all I seek.”“You crave the kiss of my ice-cold lips,
But my breath smells earthy strong;
If you kiss my plague-touched lips,
Your days, they won’t be long.”“Our time it grows short, dearheart
The time, it grows so short.
‘Tis our fate to be apart,
An’ you no more death to court.”“When will we meet again, sweetheart?
When will we meet again?”
I cannot bear to be apart;
Fore’er I’ll wait among the oak an’ aspen.“N’er again shall we meet dearheart,
Not in a thousand summers ‘an one;
You live on, an’ from undeath’s cold grip
None can hope to run.”“Ne’er again in yonder woodland green,
Shall we again side by side walk:
Love’s finest flower that e’er was seen
Has forever withered to a stalk.”“The stalk is withered dry, my love,
An’ so too doth my heart decay;
So make yourself content with new life:
Ne’er again return here by night nor day.”