The grey stone hides its meaning,
Bolivian soldiers on a cold November evening.
The sun dances drawing shared feelings,
Friendship together footsteps reeling.
Inside their room an empty space,
Hidden treasures in the look of her face.
If only the dead could take on life,
Kiss her again from Hade's knife.
Out into the sepia, "Fuego" comes the cry,
Bullets tear as they remember how to die.
Mike French March08