When all is gone including wars
that had crossed shores to dark our dawn.
When lines we’ve drawn, not as our chores,
but to close doors on this false lawn.
When souls are sold for prices cheap,
Some swapped with sheep, others untold
When the mats fold, where will we sleep?
We will just weep and die in cold.
But if we clot and freeze and burn,
We will return again and knot
the king with red hot fervent yearn.
My heart will earn its place and blot.