The Pyre Glade Rome

They have come to burn the orchards
They have come to burn the seeds
But the quicksands of denial
Are no fertile grounds for such deeds
And we walk in stray shafts of light
To the pyre glade
The plea is still in your eyes
What a fine father you would have made
Now you'll be buried in your soldier's tunic
And not many will attend
For what flowers would one pick
For a god who has met his end
And we who are not yet fallen
Remain grouped among the distant trees
Our cheeks still flushed with funeral wine
A bloodless oath, a black winter tulip
And some gentians to complete the bouquet
Your death has made me an accomplice
It has made us all recall the day
Your life remained but a flash
In a spark of black fire

Blot out all hesitance now, brothers
Blot out all doubt
For something is already slipping away
For something is already slipping away