Graves are made to waltz on 

Tunes fainter on winds waywarder than others
When from the frozen swamp the evil crystals glow,
Lure us to our disowned deep-buried banished brothers,
Our dark-souled scowling brothers,
Who pound warm fists against their jails of snow.

Waltz with decorum - one step lax or lacking,
One slip on our own graves of many deaths ago,
Betray us:  ever nearer the tune of tough ice cracking,
The hungry snarl of cracking,
And hands reach out to drag us down below.

Peter Viereck