Sword in hand, cut me down,
spread me black upon the ground.
Dirt my love, blood my friend,
this land of peace has met its end.
"Did ye say ye had a God or that ye were one?"
he asked in bold retaliation.
"Neither, brute! Never did I want one!"
The cold breeze blew his fragile body over mine;
Calm was it the day we all died,
high in the heather hills.
"Where's my relief?" he wiped his furrowed brow,
leaned against the stiff door post.
"Have ye been here for long?" in meager answer.
The guard laughed for an eternity,
closed his kissing lips, the gleaming gone.
The gates shut tight, just for us,
strong wings could not grab hold to open.
A blur of plaid feathers, a fence of claymores--
they're playing their Celtic harps
As if it would help at all-- make the world turn over,
make the blood run backwards.
"What was that ye said? Did we win?"
"Nay, nay," brought with great relief. A laugh.
"The cattle are devoured;
"The sheep, repossessed."
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