On the roof of a house in the night,
When the full moon pierces your eye,
When candles are lit among gravestones,
And ceramic masks do cry,
Sings a beautiful woman of pure bone,
With a voice as soft as the wind,
Her lovely tune soothes the village,
And the air dances and spins,
And so she twirls on the rooftops,
And the spirits do as well,
They cheer and sing with her,
Enticed by her spell,
But time soon flew by,
And ghosts sing their final call,
The woman grows radiant wings of gold,
And flies over to the hospital.
Where she patiently waits for the new dead ones,
To take them as the guide,
And to console the mortal's mourning and moans,
To be there by their side.
Then she takes the souls with her,
Telling them to take her hand,
Telling them that it's alright to be sad,
Telling them that she understands.
When they reach reincarnation,
She lays them all to rest,
She then sings a lullaby,
That she is known to sing best.
With a voice like the silkiest scarf,
And slowly caresses their heads,
She kisses them like a mother would,
Because she's the mother of the dead.
