O' gray rusting gate,
at the old Tallis home,
who's brick bear red,
as the weary wind's groan,
and paints the tongue of the sick soilder's moan,
that ambles the valley,
frightened and 'lone.

Those singing tongues,
which buzzed so rich,
o'er the dirt and soil that housed the trench,
and sewn their hymns 'cross the poisonous sea,
where bodies danced like honey autumn leaves,
swayed and trembled upon the water's crest,
limp and loose,
cold-blooded and dead;
But a solider does not cry,
for the fear to die,
for the fear to die.

Yet her face is still true to me,
as the bone that molds her sweet cheek,
warm to the skin on my fingertip,
that once trailed the curl of her lip;
But I do not cry,
not I,
not I.

My eyelids crease,
as rose curtains on my eyes,
to thwart the lonely men who await the sun to die,
and as the saffron shade balances upon my head,
my mind begins to snake against the riverbed;
Her nest of arms that frame my face,
her flesh coating mine,
as coarse peach lace,
my tears burning gently across her thigh...
like the bridges we'd demolished
on that empty black night,
carving those familiar basins of my eyes,
but I do not cry,
not I,
not I.

But how I would adore,
perhaps one last time,
to trace the chills that wrinkled her spine,
and the citrus moon 'cross that bleeding skyline,
birthing smoke and ash,
grime and fire.
But I do not cry,
not I,
not I,
when they lay me below,
cold and quiet,
they have laid me still with not a scent of crime,
no,
not a solider,
not I,
not I.
 
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