Leaning against the unwelcome shoulder of the concrete wall, you may sob if you choose,
But the man could not hear the muffled murmur of
The granite cage.

Prickly bed of hackneyed hay,
sullen on the casket of warped iron braids.
Molded from time and time again of endless wear.

Darkness behind the sandstone shoulder. How the russet boot of weathered hide lies idle, thrust into oblivion,
secluded into a corner of solitude.
Once a great idol of the crusade.

Gaze at him now, through the dust and
grime.
What has become of the great hero of Vitkov hill?