95.

The elders are all dead

They have been stuffed away in wood

Or cast upon a pyre

Put out to sea wrapped in fur

As if they were warriors still

Or dropped in a moat from a castle wall

They store their dreams in vaults

Stir from the earth when the murder of time,

The people they had been with,

Have let them down.

The elders are grown stiff

And the wind has broken their staff.