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Wyrd
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Cold Son of the Wind
How chill is morning, how cold its melody.
On a season of withering, when time stands still
I listened and the wind spoke to me,
I heard the woods sing to me.
Reciting poems and myths, from earliest of ages
Shadow of a crooked rowan tree, looks more like a bear in sleep
Season fades along with its leaves,
until one plough day earth covers earth
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Cold, son of the wind, freeze the winter willows
Chill the birch chunks, Cold, son of the wind
I listened and the rain whispered to me,
I heard the streams murmur my name.
Shared their timeless wisdom, a cruel tale of nature unveiled
Until one plough day earth covers earth
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