In the middle of the darkest night,
Everywhere are tremulous cries.
They fear those, that fear the light,
Believe in those stone old lies.

They all are rising their swords
Are reaming garlic in their hair,
Are shouting old and foreign words,
to defend themselves and their lair.

It is dreaded vampires night
in a world full of superstition.
They are holding torches at the firesite,
Like a thousand years old tradition.

None has ever seen such beasts,
but still they trust in the tales.
And so they hold their feasts,
to oppose possible winter gales.

Peter Schwanemann (12.1.2010)