Withered be the flower | |
Long past it's prime and bloom | |
Forgotten on the stony bed | |
This silent hillside tomb | |
For coppered be the grip Of this wooded land | |
A crude cold gauntlet | |
Hides the boney hand | |
Tears once warmed the ground | |
Torn out of eyes that could cry no more | |
Compassion for the wind to take | |
O doth pity the bastard poor | |
A life of misery and hate | |
Upon a chance a twist of fate | |
The poison from the goblet ran | |
Down the throat of her drunken man |