Gone are the happy days,
Long gone,
Like the bones of men,
Forgotten and distraught in their graves.

Gone,
What little joys,
Through struggle and strife acquired,
And treasured like a kiss in passionate embrace.

Such a passion have i,
That rises up through the chest,
A fine horse,
That rears up with pride,
In rampant martial display.

Such a passion there is,
Here,
In the cage of my being,
Yet rivers of time,
Do quench the flames,
And all seems lost and forlorn,
Amongst the smouldering steam.

Gone,
Gone!,
Such moments of cheer,
Once enjoyed by this ravaged heart,
Amidst billowing fields of wheat,
All splashed with golden sun.

Oh friendly ghosts,
Oh spirits of suffering,
Fetch me Hemlock from the field,
And a dagger,
To twist deep down,
In the sockets of my eyes.

Fetch me the hangmans noose,
And so to swing,
From the bridge of the lost,
To join the distraught bones,
In the airless material,
Of the womb of the earth.