Cold granite stands guard.
A sentry to the lost ones protecting the occupants firm in silent fixation.
In the cold of a vast winter night, together they wither,
The long dead ones.
Huddled together in the royal family tomb.
From outside the cemetery hut window, the sentry watches the occupant,
He's toasting mallows with his iron fork, a blaze burns in the homestead hearth.
The sentry was the brave man.
Standing outside in the cold.
Guarding those who were no more.
Steal not those regal bones.
Never complains, never moans.
It is nearly morning and he is relieved.

Heigh- **, off he goes into the curator's whare.
For fluffy  marshmallows and warmth to share.
(C) Livvi