That die down
Washed away
In the throbbing drums
Of death
In the pulse
Of pain,
The heart wrenching certainty
Of roads not taken,
Our forces dwindling
And our power
But a trickle
That concedes at every turn
Our time grows near,
Our yields dwindle,
Days do run fast
Tick by tick
We are the poor
The ashamed,
Oh, broken, so broken,
The callous spirits
For whom history came to a close
And no tale was ever told.
