We had a garden
Perhaps it was a poor thing
But to me it was as wondrous as Babylon.
It was ours
Watered with our blood.
You trampled it and cut down all the best of the flowers.
Love, that was so strong did not withstand your passage
Nor hope, nor respect, nor faith. Compassion fell, and Loyalty, and Justice, truth, and honour.
All fell at last and one remains alone, perhaps planted deeper than the rest
Perhaps just more stubborn
I think though it is more a weed than a flower.
Passion grows still.
That is all we have left of our garden.