He comes from the grave, his body a home of worms and filth. No life in
his eyes, no warmth of his skin, no beating of his breast. His soul, as
empty and dark as the night sky. He laughs at the blade, spits at the
arrow, for they will not harm his flesh. For enternity, he will walk the
earth, smelling the sweet blood of the living, Feasting upon the bones
of the damned. Beware, for he is the living dead.--Obscure Hindu text, circa 1000B.C.E.
