Up on the hill the fire roars,
hisses and spits out sparks that reach to the skies.
Dancing away from the flames like souls from a battlefield.
One by one by one they fly.

Amongst all the chaos there's someone.
Sitting back from the heckling crowd.
A man who fears no man or evil
nor any a soul in the clouds.
His reasons long tempered by living.
Long days with the sickle and plough.
If it wasn't for hard work forgiving.
He wonders if he'd be here now.