We wept for our lost dead,
We grew weary of war.
Our sons and our daughters,
Unburied in fields afar.
While hunting in the wild,
I came across a man,
Lamenting his lost son,
From our rival’s war band.
A minority wished
That war’s end not be called:
Our lords and their nobles,
Sat safe in castle walls.
We rounded up our lords.
Their nobles: tossed in sacks.
We locked them in the Hall,
And left a single axe.
We broke bread and waited.
We talked of our shared dreams.
We drank our barrelled ale,
And listened to the screams.
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