Long... Long... ago, I met a man
In a shady and mangled tavern.
His stature rather low,
But his eyes brimmed with passion.
Shells, Fires and Heaven's plot,
Engulfed and smeared the fief.
Despite all that monstrosity,
This man was reluctant to leave.
I took my time and then a few sips,
Before I asked for his name.
To which Old Sire modestly said,
"I'm Saint Peter James."
The sky's choked with charcoal clouds,
The land reeks of fear and blood.
And yet here he calmly stood,
With all the hesitations shoved.
"Soon, there will be nothing but ash,
and the war shall claim the lot.
Amid these ghostly shrouds,
What keeps you caught?"
"My father's sweat is in these walls,
My mother rests in the garden.
And when the heavy iron falls,
It's they who ask for pardon."
He didn't flinch at the distant crack,
Nor the smell of burning pine.
While the others turned their weary backs,
He simply poured more wine.
"But Sir," I urged, "The end is near,
Nothing but Death reigns o'er the streets.
Is there no logic, then, in dread?
No wisdom in retreat?"
The words that fell from his aging mouth,
Keep me restless, wherever I may roam.
With a daunting grin he asked,
"Who could abandon their home?"