Aesma Daeva

My white canoe, like the silvery air
O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls
When the moons of the world are round and fair
I paddle back from the Camp of Souls
When the wishtonwish in the low swamp grieves
Come the dark plumes of the red singing leaves
Two hundred times have the moons of spring
Rolled over the bright bay's azure breath
Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing
And painted my face with the paint of death
The camp of souls
The camp of souls
And from thy pipe o'er my corpse there broke
The solemn rings of the blue last smoke