Four thousand rolled away, Warriors striding on home. Four thousand rolled away, Packed down beneath the loam. Blind are the men of warring. Deaf are the men of policy. Dumb are imperial leaders, Crippled of a thirst for music. Four thousand rolled away, Warriors striding on home. Four thousand rolled away, Packed down beneath the loam. Songs go unsung among bones, No ears heed the joyous choir, No eyes observe the living score, No blood left within their delight. Four thousand rolled away, Warriors striding on home. Four thousand rolled away, Packed down beneath the loam. Leaders, blind and wicked are those With no wings painted upon them, Only hoisting their wretched talons Should the music ever change. © 2008 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)