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

Mit uns die Sonne, mit uns das Meer

Mit uns die Sonne, mit uns das Meer