By John Thomas Tuft

It is a narrow path, that climbs the steep hill
Wending its way through the forest now healed
Where knights and swordsmen fought for their queen
Leading to the windswept meadow where their fate was sealed.

They all fought valiantly to protect her majesty
But their numbers so few proved to be their achilles
And she was carried away into the black kingdom
While the remnants of their honor were lost in the lilies.

The ruins of the royal castle stand silent watch now
The walls of the old garrison crumbled to dust
And where once the watchtower commanded a view
Wears a shroud of mists, hovering spirits seeking lost trust.