There once was a soldier of fame,
Who marched with a steady acclaim.
He bled in the sand,
With death close at hand,
Yet whispered his sweetheart’s name.

A poet then picked up the song,
And carried the story along.
He painted the skies,
With tears in his eyes,
And swore they had all died wrong.

A king in his castle would boast,
Of victories claimed on the coast.
He toasted the fight,
By fire at night,
But never once prayed for the lost.

The soldier lay broken and still,
The poet wrote words to fulfill.
The king wore a crown,
While towns burned down,
And graves filled the side of the hill.

The poet grew frail in his bed,
Each stanza still sung for the dead.
He inked with his pain,
A crimson refrain,
Till silence was all that he said.

The king died in comfort and gold,
While legends of battle were told.
The poet’s last page,
Now yellow with age,
Was found in the soldier’s fold.

The soldier was nameless, unheard,
The poet had carved him in word.
But here lies the sting:
The poet, the king,
And the soldier were one soul interred.