Thee, sun-saved white poet,
Calleth unto me, weeping,
A summons to thine starkest,
Bleak silver voice.
Morning doth shiver on,
Wind parting dewdrops,
Walketh this path,
I do unto thee.
Crystalline ring, binding, ensnaring,
I hastened on,
Porcelain livery atwixt hair and ankle,
Higher a coronet of pure gold.
Morning doth shiver on,
Wind parting dewdrops,
Walketh this path,
I do unto thee.
A poor soul I be,
So captured and wounded by
Sapphires so clear,
And so beautiful, rare.
Morning doth shiver on,
Wind parting dewdrops,
Walketh this path,
I do unto thee.
The sure hold of firm earth,
Torn asunder by anger,
The warmth of the fire burning,
lycanthropes with iced manes
canter over the rolling, snow-topped hillocks
taking Herald, the ram, back to the pack
man and beast take him, break him, share him
and on the morrow miss him
for they pay the man who farms the land
but they do not know what they do
under cover of darkness, guided by her widened eye
they do not know what they do
they do not know