Through the mist and fog and puddled mud,
         passed the battle field lined in stone;
         among the trees carved in blood.
A man stands with thin gray hair;
         a smooth face and hazy eyes.
         His features soft--unlike stone.
He speaks a tale of desired glory;
         of dreams of castles made in silver,
         and moats to guard them, lined in gold.
There are statues tall and white,
         stained only by their makers blood,
         they appear as angels in the mists.
And as one walks through this field
         the past follows, heavy upon their neck.
         A rough remembrance, made thick by love.
At the base of one small statue lays a heart.
         Its beat continues and echos through the sky.
         It bares the marks of many trampings upon it.
Tears fill one's eyes and the statue falls,
         a heap of dust where it once stood,
         burying the heart and supressing its beats.
And the old man laughs.