The Glencoe Massacre

The clock strikes twelve, the moon strikes silver.
The glow of the heather seeps through the foggy, blood soaked shadows.
The cries of men among crows, and the silence of men recently imposed,
half strewn, like feathers blown, on the eternal dusk of the world
which arises in times of profound despair.
Their silence fills the air.

The hills channel the chiseled crisp wind, no respite, they know
too well, from the pains of slaughter and thoughts of hell.
The wind blows no mercy, cutting through men like the reaper's scythe, it
scurries north into the night.

The King's men, sent with the stroke of a harmless pen,
reluctant to kill, but kill they must,
butchered them with blades of rust,
their countrymen cut down like dust.
Duties are duties, orders are orders, and then there's murder
under trust.

The dying mass of McDonald's clan, stare
defiantly into the cold Glencoe night. In the moon's faint pity, their
wounds and blood alight. Lingering in their fate, the cries of the
wounded fade. Their thoughts of reason turn to sleep, the crows weep,
and dawn's early march, descends to reveal the massacre.