this pome is written

not sung in fields of glory
where blood fills the setting sky
where wretched men wail their stories
of why they'd in desperate honour die

nor in glistening streams
rolling down ancient hills in forests
where birds call in lonely nights
and dreams are the remains of the day

not even in the music
floating on the air in colours
made sweet by dancing girls smiling
with the bass beating on all sides
in the rhythm of their sway

but in the blood of a loving heart
worn slowly on this carousel of time