A mystical field,
Bedight, benign,
Rimmed with golden roses;
Surreal, divine,

Where farmers farm,
And hunters harm
Blameless beasts;

And where unleavened priests
See no reason, (and have no care)
To share their hollowed feast;

In this field (this forlorn field),
Where children sing, skip, and prance
There are those that pay the cost
For the people who have lost the meaning of the word, Romance,

There lies a group--an exception of few--
Who have fought and died, journeyed and flew,
For this idea;
And they’ve salvaged--in concrete, and tombs, lined with gold,
This term--this idea; this concept of old.

This name we call Love
Still exists, though locked away, by an angel throng;
Concealed by the symphony of a sparrows song,

And--though it is rare; rumored to be ordained by God,
It may still be found, in a child’s cry;
A brute’s ballade,
Or a lover’s eye.