To Their Destruction

Waves carve the shores of the Trottish countryside
And tickle the heather with a lost stallion's plight
In their leaves, the songs of those claimed by kelpies are carried
Though even their ghosts are fragmented,
In a village, a mill, a manor, or a farm somewhere:
Not everypony has given up on what bones are surrendered
Gods, would it not be good if his kin were so kind?