A short poem.
|The Battle for Strawberry Hill
The word from the front is, they're coming
How long we have no one can tell
We've made preparations, they're holding
But many have heard the death knell
Our hill, once a garden, so vivid
Became nothing more than a tomb
For now rendered ashen and pallid
By battle, and horror, and doom.
In truth, we all wait for a tempest
To rip through us sharper than steel
But long as there's breath to defend it
We'll not fail our Strawberry Hill.
The word from the front is, make ready
They've crossed our last lines in the night
Our late preparations, soon folding
'Neath volleys of thunderous might.
Our hill, once a garden, is shaken
The vermin advance up the wall
We fight for each inch but we're falling
Too many have heard the last call.
In truth, we were ready for losses,
But slaughter's the word for what came
A lone band yet stands at the ready
The last of old Strawberry's Flame
The word from the front is, push harder
They're no longer strongly entrenched
For if we can break and divide them
Our victory's near to be clenched
Our hill, once a garden, still standing
Through more than I ever could tell
Is now to us more than a haven.
Is now to us more than a hell.
In truth, when the sun came that morning.
We never did speculate why
That out of the deep pools of crimson.
Young Strawberries reached for the sky.