A stirring. br -Midnight- br The poppies cling to life br On two fresh graves. br An old man, br A young man. br Weak, br Strong, br Both changed. br br The ground moves, br The fresh graves shift. br Dark, moist dirt br Hands reach through, br Clawing the air, br Grasping for the freedom br Of the waking dead. br br Two figures, pale in the moonlight, br -Pale in any light.- br Stand. They sense each other, br Cold without blood. br They also sense br The approach of a dozen others, br Like them, yet older. br -Older in existence, for br What they are now br Knows no age. br br A shrill cry echoes br In the still air of the graveyard. br Tombstones, br Seemingly solid images br Of the past, br Quiver at the sound. br There are no words in the cry, br For none of these understand, br Yet there is meaning. br The two figures shift. br They need no words: br They are driven now br By that unholy appetite; br Human blood.