From the Dales Diary

It was the season-
The sun endangered the flowers
With its splendid warmth
When fields were green with hay
And lovers stirred mad by emotions
Put to death- the best of roses
It was this season he was conceived
On a field dressed with shriveled rose and warmth
In the open- where the sheep grazed

But in Saphils where the masked men breathe
The sun had burnt their crops
And gulped the waters that art their brooks
And in Saphils were not lovers
But haters, haters of death, seekers of life
And so the masked men marched-
Across the seven mountains-
To here, where the sun endangered the flowers
With its splendid warmth
To here where the brooks all clear and clean
Added to the symphony that art the woods
And on the fields green with warmth they did march
Hungry- that made their reason weak and frail
And -there where lovers conceived in open
They came through
Slaughtering sheep
And all that came in their way
Slaughtering sheep
For their young daughters
Who frail and feeble
Were -already meal for death
And to them, for their young daughters
Shepherds were monsters
-Sent by death

And though he was good and pleasant
-This shepherd
He was a shepherd
-Willing to die for his sheep
Against those- who just
Were made monsters by hunger

And so he laid stiff in death
His blood accompanying his sheep
Into the brook once clear and clean
But now red and bloody
His lover laid too- warm and fainted
And another who thrived in her womb-
Strong, bold and unknown
And when the war that killed his father passed
He sat there- in a womb- still, strong and bold
In the throne of her heart
Protecting her from spears and misuse
The ones that often comes with defeat
Hanging in the shadow of the victor

And when too- he was hungry
He began to eat out from the womb

As we the roses thrived on
Praying for the victors