May I shrink to dust
In your cold, wild Wastes,
And may my tongue speak
Its last hymn to your winds.
I pray for the herder
That whistles to his guar at play.
I pray for the hunter
That stalks the white walkers.
I pray for the Wise One
That seeks under the hill,
And the wife who wishes
For one last touch of her dead child's hand.
I will not pray for that which I've lost
When my heart springs forth
From your soil, like a seed,
And your blossoms anew beneath tomorrow's sun
 Blood Saga · Sun May 03, 2009 @ 11:17am · 0 Comments |
