Withered be the flower
long past it's prime and bloom
forgotten on the stony bed
this silent hillside tomb
for coppered be the grip
of this wooded land
a crude cold gauntlet
hides the boney hand
Tears once warmed the ground
torn out of eyes that could cry no more
compassion for the wind to take
o doth pity the bastard poor
a life of misery and hate
upon a chance a twist of fate
the poison from the goblet ran
down the throat of her drunken man