The yew tree bloomed,
grew, colorful, bight
and happily sways
shining brightly
proud and tall,
'till those horrible fateful days.
The blood soaked grass,
under the death stained sky,
Soldiers standing on their weary feet,
the moon is rising,
and the general shouted
Retreat! Retreat!
The sun, gone it seems,
And in the trenches,
oh so dark dank and deep
Waiting a young scout,
in the ditch, watching peering,
a single soldier doth not sleep.
In the twilight he awaits,
an endless fight,
they'll watch their foe,
he knows he'll die,
and hunt him down,
All in all, a life time low.
Hours past, that soldier stood,
awaiting death,
knowing he's gone,
and he'll stand,
as was true,
awaiting dawn.
A shot rang through,
that grief so close,
but one last thing,
a grenade was thrown,
and then he fell,
with a detonating ring.
The yew tree bloomed
and the fields grow,
but forever more,
That soldier stood,
mourning the death,
not the victory , nor the lore,
but alas that soldier had no breath,
for he was gone,
as he should,
for he was death,
on that field's hood.
With a gust,
gail fore true,
that soldier stood,
then washed away,
waiting again,
for that fateful day
Forget not this soldiers fate,
as he stood, death await,
if we love and care elite,
then that hope is nare to late.
When the yew tree lies at your feet.
