To thee, who grasp this starry hold,
Where pines stand guard as fates unfold,
‘Neath winter’s sky, they gather tight,
A veil of cloud obscures the night.
Tales are carved from lessons of old,
Treasure locked tight like dead men’s souls.
Who tread this path of fault and fear,
As shadows stretch and flames draw near.
In moonsets soft, where whispers wend,
From smoke-kissed glades, do dreams ascend,
By flicker’d flame and ancient fire,
Cold winds fan the funeral pyre.
As embers rise chased by burning breath,
A peace falls over this dance with death.
To thee, who grasp as fates unfold,
Tales are carved from dead men’s souls.
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