There's a long strecth of hillocks
There's beach asleep and dream
There's battered broken fort beside the sea
There are sunken trampled graves
There's a little rotting pier
And winding paths that wind unceasingly
There a torn silent valley
There's a tiny rivulet
With some blood upon the stones beside its mourn
There are lines of buried bones
There's an unpaid waiting debt
There's a sound of gentle sobbing in the south.
Leon Gellert