I gazed upon a weary field
Where wayward seeds had blown,
And plots were laid and borders sealed
Beneath a golden crown,
And rising from a ghastly host
Of unkempt thorny briar,
On writhing mist a fallen ghost
Lit up a spectral pyre.

Cold shivered flames shot heavenward
Convulsing time to freeze,
The fertile land was drowned in mud
And clouded with disease.
Across the field a battle raged
Beneath an orange flare,
Old roots entwined as limbs engaged
And tussled for the air.

In eager rows defenders fell
Supplanted by their foe,
A mud draped rug of pod and shell
Buried the ground below,
And racing upwards in a spire
To reach Heaven's domain
They sought to steal the sun's bright fire
To use for their own gain.

Fresh saplings withered in the heat
That scorched the living soil,
And ashes rained down like a sheet
To form an acrid pile;
The sweet decay of rotting limbs
Pervaded like a shield,
As evening sang her doleful hymns
Across a barren field.