At Supper

Under the chant of an angel’s dirge
Pealing the crosses of the nameless graves
The mournful cross with wilted wreath on the head
Under the dusty tombstone
Soldier lies in the Earth

Cold like the senseless moon
With the last dream he sleeps
A fat worm with his sate snoot
In his body gently creeps

So many times he conquered the lands
In the name of Christ
With a sword in his hand
Once so brave in the battles and wars
Now tranquil he lies as a supper for worms