Singing of the dire
Crimson robes of a sickly choire
For the forgotten hero
The ghost of holy time
He died into ashes
Death closed his eye lashes
On a wet dusty ground
That never bore the green
He did what he thought he must
Showed them horror, in a handful of dust
Then retreated in a red armour
The scent of which poured from his heart
In a distance he saw the temple
He sprawled and closed his eyes
A tiresom smile lingered
And then there came the winter.
N.H.
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