Oriflame the banner of two tongues,
under which the flower of a country died.
Their bodies strewn like hellish ladder wrungs,
A descent while crying for regicide.
I remember that chill day you took me there,
to this place now green and field of fair,
and told me of the fate of those fallen kings,
and other myriad forgotten musty things.
Your eyes stare out at figures in retreat,
like the snow that slurries into spring.
The crushing of the thatch soddens our feet,
The play being the thing our conscience bring.
Night and I gave myself to your conquest,
knowing that fire incandescent best.