The Well of Wistful Wishes

Up the hill of darkness we walked
inclined to submit our fate
by the works of our hands was this voyage planned
and we didn't expect to be late.

Our wives and daughters and all the young lads
were left behind in the dust
we could not explain this sorrowful rain
that dampened their rooted trust.

In single file, we marched on
with scraps of paper clenched tight
the fates were sealed in the scraps concealed
as we climbed with all of our might.

At the crest of the hill, we beheld a light
that shined with a dark remain
it came from a well that was under a bell
which swayed as if it were pained.

We approached the Well of Wistful Wishes
with the names of many held fast
any names that were written on the scraps were smitten
if into the deep they were cast.

At the turn of the decade, this march was had
through the hills covered in sludge
the names were those who had given us woes
from which we held some grudge.

We gazed at each other from around the Well
nobody wanting to be first
we decided together and threw our slips into the nether
and watched them with lips that were pursed.

The papers faded from within our sight
as the air became still and dead
suddenly the bell rang like a creation from hell
that resounded throughout our heads.

The dark light that came from the Well
became strong and seemingly alive
by a voice that was deep were the names to be reaped
called out as we all lost our lives.