The eye of flame sets it's sight
upon the grave of ghostly soldiers,
for purpose of both war and peace
they fall upon the emerald plains;
abhorrence fills the veins of aged enemies.
Innocent palms carry the dead, send them skyward to the heavens
so they might rally round their kin again,
o'er mountains, united with oceans,
they join their ancestors in mind, body, and spirit;
joy redeems it's quality in the eyes of youthful foe.
Days upon weeks they bombard with indifference,
pushed aside as children in their wrongful place, they sit quietly,
so still one might mistake their presence for stone, and the dead,
that rest with such intimacy upon nature's breast, do turn to crystal;
eternal is the innocence of winter's breath.
