He’s grown acquainted with the night,
familiar with the creeping pain,
and loss too often in his sight.

He’s walked along the country lane
and dropped his eyes afraid to see
the stones that bore his family name.

He’s stood alone beneath the tree
his father’s father allowed to stand
and thought of those now gone and free.

He’s watched the fog enshroud the land,
embraced the fading of the light,
and laughed at all the years he’d planned.

Escaping thoughts of wrong and right,
he’s grown acquainted with the night.