the stone cutter tossed his thorny crown
while the bitter leaves twirled around
the father to his brood he spoke
his war hound bit the jester's joke

the army assembled on the path
twas vengence time of hurried wrath
he howled the dogs and spurred the wind
the last man standing found his grin

death's own daughter stood up tall
the little boy he kicked his ball
merchant heavy with laden gold
for the record the story told

the dust he settled, the victor's cry
a lone eagle spit into his his eye
the flowers folded up their tent
a sad taxman counted the petals spent

The wind it blew its wicked way
painted roses turned to grey
and if you knew or come what may
grew a little shorter on that cold day



Penned by my hand on the 21st of Sarapin, in the year 582 AF.