The verse of the mourned

A forest of spears on the plain lies,

All chance of hope swiftly dies,

As the grass runs red with lifeblood,

and bodies clotting in the mud.

Among these dead and dying men,

Lies a man thinking of when,

When he watched the seabirds fly,

Free and wheeling in the sky,

while the scent of lavender made his hopes high.

Knowing now he will be free,

He watches a bee land on his chest,

His musket falls from his grasp,

His finall prayer he did rasp,

His dead eyes staring at the bee,

Ever knowing he is free,

The bee climbs to the young mans knee,

As death it had done its job.