A poem by Gallan. "Listen then these are the charmsAnd will I see your pleasure stretchedAn even dozen they crowd the tombYou can read the dead in twelve facesAnd the winter months are longThe shields are hammered into splintersBeating war’s time will never ring trueFools stir in the crypt counting notchesAnd the snow settles burying all tracesCrows spill the sky knocked like inkBabies crawl to the front linePlump arms shouting proof ’gainst harmThe helms rock askew in pitching tumultAnd the brightest blood is the freshestRound the well charged and spattedCadavers cherish company’s lonely vigilThe tomb’s walls trumpet failuresDressed as triumphs and glory’s trainsAnd the fallen are bundled lying under footEach year Spring dies still newbornListen then these are the charmsHistory is written