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