Argnierre’s Lament

(a song)

Yon summer hills ‘round which stand our golden grasses,

They twirl, they fall, and lie still upon the ground.

The wind she howls the blades down into the valley,

She cuts across the waves like a storm on the sea.

~

Their flags were flown all snapping around in the thunder,

They stared at the hills with nothing but cold in their eyes.

The silver rains down red ’fore reaching the rivers,

No children sing, nor cry, nor find the bay.