beneath the crushing boots of time 
the smoothed teeth of chattering maws 
insisting that a loud pulpit is best 
in spite of souring bedrock

it is your sun-picked bones 
my sons shall find 
like petrified feather splines : 
mere pinpricks and 
pocket sized nothings
rattling against the rocks 
in riverbeds 
the echo and wash of your misfortunes. 

and your tragedy will be writ 
with the blackened wax 
from winged pride 
stored in jars and 
outliving you by centuries 

I wish death upon no one, 
and a slow one lesser still 
but I couldn't protect you from yourselves.
You chose your hill to die on 
and you died by iron will.