Chaste scars, found on the fallen,
From green to grey to brown blending,
melding with the ground,
eventually become a mound.

Breaking down, the broken giants, who
still live in another form, to make shelter
from every storm for
those who need a home.

If I could be this useful, even after my purpose,
has been at an end and fruitful, bird perches,
hidden burrows, safe and warm and dry,
then lay me on the surface, leave but cry,

Not a tear to drop,
as it may speed the rot,
and nothing will find in me,
a home, a suitable place to be
at rest.

Maybe for eternity.