Far from here, a house forsaken on lands of yesterdaynthe silence of the night has crept innas weeping of the women, as thoughts of solitudenas sadness and as griefnnIn a dim deserted room a token left on the tablena talisman, a hairbrush from his fathernoozing from the shaft a stream of bitter sapndripping scarlet flow, so slownnThey know it to be an emblem of deathna sign of destructionnthey recognize the end of a friendnthe agony of a man and sonnthey look at brush, remember the black hairnthey weep the bitter sapnnOozing from the shaft a stream of bitter sapndripping scarlet flow, so slownbristles weeping wet, into a pool of red