I have seen it, seen it
The blood stains on the dandelions
The death, hiding among the daisies
Staining the innocence forever
Yet, here comes the king!
Singing of how pure his brethren are
Hand on his breast of gold.
We have heard it, heard it
From the hilltops over the moor
where the sun was expelled in the morning
The rise and crash and scream and fall,
Not of men but also of memories,
Not sons but also of mothers
France is dead, silent, buried.
England is distilled in the wine cellars
To be savoured and cherished; along with
the queen’s words of hand and elbow
the king’s of death and sword
Here I am and I cannot believe myself
Yesterday we spoke of pleasure
and Katharine’s new dress and jewels
Now all I know is arrows,
and a massacre from far away.
They cannot cry, and will not
they are not petty women like us
they are men, creatures of the mud
Fighting themselves to heaven and
drinking themselves to hell.
When will my voice matter?
There will never be a queen without a king
Or women at the heights of men
Yet, as I watch the bestial, quiet skeleton
Of bestial, quiet, Agincourt
I can hope for the buds of spring to bloom
and France to fight once more.