narrative poetry

i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst
be not false
the arches of the red bridge
burly, dozing humble-bee
she heard the children playing in the sun
have you seen walking through the village
did you ever hear of
rocked in the cradle of the deep
when freedom from her mountain height
sleep, gray brother of death
roses and gold
all down the years
which i wish to remark
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies