I walked up to the dead men on the top of the hill
Saw their empty eyes
But to my surprise
They were dreaming still
Some of them turned to nightmares, some of them turned to gold
But most of their dreams
Or so it seems
Will never unfold
Look at all of us falling like the leaves of red and brown
Make me king of the broken-winged
And hand me my crown
Now you've turned so cold inside
And so have I
Don't you feel the desire to regain this fire?
No you deny
My dream is dying
The bad guys have won
She left without a warning
And I don't know where I belong
The throne they placed me on
Far away and upon
The last one turns all the lights down
And summer is gone
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem