a lasting sacrament

there are no soldiers left to stand on guard
while demon-like the bandits roam the ways
so many hopes have faced their great delays
and we have learned that the last door is barred
the dead are crowded into the balm-yard
and what the prophet says they won't regard
having too long uttered the words of praise
and danced in one too many mad ballets
they take the meaning and they take it hard
this is the time for us to take our leave
while light remains to guide our weary feet
upon the path toward the last clear gate
another time perhaps we'll choose to grieve
for those who earned the wages of defeat
and learned the lessons of capricious fate