There?s a lonely stretch of hillocks:
There?s a beach asleep and drear:
There?s a battered broken fort beside the sea.
There are sunken trampled graves:
And a little rotting pier:
And winding paths that wind unceasingly.
There?s a torn and silent valley:
There?s a tiny rivulet
With some blood upon the stones beside its mouth.
There are lines of buried bones:
There?s an unpaid waiting debt :
There?s a sound of gentle sobbing in the South.