You kneel in the heavy grey clay
Where the Latin names fade away
The *Symphyandrum* clings to the grit
While the thunder begins to hit
You watch how the root system creeps
While the tired infantry sleeps
The soil is a rich black blend
Where the broken iron will bend
A helmet rests deep in the mire
Far from the smoke and the fire
It sleeps in a velvet cold bed
While the distant cannons tread
You touch the cold rim of the shell
A hollow and rusted brass bell
The *Carex* grows tall in the rust
Turning the armor to dust
A helmet rests deep in the mire
Far from the smoke and the fire
It sleeps in a velvet cold bed
While the distant cannons tread
The bass walks a slow steady line
The minerals taste like old wine
You wait for the petals to bloom
In the middle of impending doom
The thunder is rolling in low
The seeds in the mud start to grow
A slow kind of patience you keep
While the heavy artillery leap
You categorize every leaf
A botanist sketching his grief
The iron is just a dead stone
Left in the garden alone
A helmet rests deep in the mire
Far from the smoke and the fire
It sleeps in a velvet cold bed
While the distant cannons tread
Just steel in the silt.
Just a garden of guilt.
(Slow fade)
