Untitled
As an old bard's time is revered,
and days hence are forgotten,
new poets are revered,
and yet old truths are still begotten.
Shadows still remain,
of the time when we were young,
days when we were strong,
while our string was being strummed.
And whence has our wisdom come?
And where is it beheld?
Our story books and birthday cards,
are a sad place for it to be shelved.
A cold wind blows, these days.
A mourning song is sung.
Taps are played by the bugle,
and the soldier's steps are gone.
Belief is thin and faith,
faith is so badly shaken.
it only lingers on because,
no one wants to be mistaken.
Of all our holy remedies,
most have been betrayed.
Now we have very little from,
which that we can stray.
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