Thursday, 1 April 2010

The Old Man

The dusty road throbbed beneath his feet
as the shades of sunset sigh;
The silence repeats itself over again
and the victims are starting to cry.

The weary fields are taking their rest,
as the down the highway he plods on;
The graveyard yawned its empty jaws
for the bodies have long since gone.

There's a hawthorn hedge by the roadside,
but he doesn't need shelter to sleep;
The pale moon cries down in the valley
But how can dead men weep?

The road seemed to shudder at the step
of that poor lonely cripple with his cane.
His ponderous walk and monotonous tune,
that he whistled to comfort the rain.
As he reached his plotted destination
his black cloak ran with blood.
Then he put a horn to his cold dry lips
and blew the last doleful note.

Then off once more into darkness
as he disappears over the hill.
But he will come again my friend
for there's plenty more graves to fill

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