Grave bons dropping dust,
Crossed at the old master’s feet.
Creaking and bleating their lonely cries.
Left with unrest in their defeat.
Dry bone, marrow turned to stone,
Tossed at the blind king’s throne,
No One left at the hearth,
No Sons to take them home.
Cold bones, wrapped in parchment flesh,
Shuddering in the darkness, in suspense.
Not a memory of theirs remains.
Yet, still these ones draw breath.
Hot bones bathed in red,
Upon the soaked bloody ground, abandoned.
No tomb for them but where they fall,
In a field so far from home.