It was a good bonfire
Leaving the autumn pasture

Covered in light smoke
Like some medieval campsite

Knives sheathed; leaning on our
Newly whittled staffs

We spoke of fathers; how some
Keep on living long after their souls

Leave their bodies
Leaving their wives with less laughter

And life than they deserve
If we ever become bitter old men, he

Said, directly to my eyes,
We have to... we have to cut

Our women loose, before we pull
Them down with us

The wind changed, blowing smoke
And ashes through the trees

Point it out if it happens, I replied
We shook on it