there were a battle feeld down there, with blood in its eye
the men were astrewn, and their cries lowed the skye
but she cared only little for the cavals in their mire
it were the foal only yesterday who called sadness and ire
it had fallen through tripwork, it had fallen in its service
it had fallen were what mattered, the details impervious
from her ribs she could feel the loss of that day
and hate her age which had kept her at bey
and now as the mournsongs of moon they were coming
the whiskers on her lips were their own soresnort strumming
