Still fresh, they lay on the floor,
Untouched by the sands of time.
Pale hands clutching their hilts.
Stressed faces are relaxed at last.
But there is nobody to lay them to bed
In the tombs where their kind belong.
No gravediggers to jest and laugh.
No mourners to shed tears as they go.
A blade dipped in elixir should never,
Never spill a fluid so precious.
But still crimson flowers cover their skin,
As they begin their march towards the end.
Poor Yorick leads them through the mist,
Finding other souls as they stumble along.
Two school friends, heads held high,
While the blood flows from the stumps below.
They continue to march until they find
A young woman, maid no more, with
Flowers in her hands,
Flowers strewn on the ground.
Her clothes are sodden and her feet fall heavily.
As she trudges along with the rest,
She says not a word, and hums a happy tune.
Finally they reach the journey’s end,
The borders of a country undiscovered.
There are no more fardels to bear.
A sleep and a dream await them.
The slings and arrows are gone.
The question has been answered.
The young Dane has found his home.