No one's lived near me for many a year.
But now someone's built. Now the house is alight.
(When that light's doused, there's nothing to hold back the night.)
There's nothing else here, so far out from town,
except an old cabin, in ruins, torn down,
a hundred yards off -- a short run for a man.
Their fire cuts chill, as best as it can.
And now cold rain falls. It wets to the bone.
The old cabin's as I remembered. It's stone.
The roof's long since gone. The windows. The door.
The rugs and the trunks and the lamps and the floor.
The house has a roof. They've nothing to fear.
The cold rain will freeze, for winter is here.
The house has no curtains. They've no need to hide.
How old times were different! -- there's movement inside.
The child plays piano. The husband and wife
are at work in the kitchen. She uses a knife
while he's at the stove, stirring things right.
They're all snug inside, warm on this cold night.
I see all the people, so happy within.
It's strange now to see them so closely again.
No one has lived here since long, long ago.
...there's a reason that nobody builds here, you know.
Fur soft as a mouse. My limbs, long and lean.
Faster than anything you've ever seen.
My teeth sharp as swords, and my claws red with sin.
It's warm in that house. I'm outside. Let me in.