When winter's wind comes to the mountain pass,
Like the ghosts of destriers on endless march,
No wings, no legs, can carry you through the storm.
Sometimes a friend will find you.

I knew a squirehood friend with such wings,
We walked gardens and swung legs from cliffs,
A safe home had he, and family beloved.
Staying with those who could fly, so did I.

So I broke blue fingers on stones glued by ice,
Until the Lord of the Dawn burnt a hole,
And many grieved for a people lost.
A place in its prime, taken as a prize.

Slavers beat down doors with tyrants' fists,
And plunder the sanctity of children's hearths,
Taking lives and making them still walk, still fly,
A heartbeat broken mute, soul enslaved.

The Heartwood swoops and heralds Death,
Return to the melody of Her eternal song,
Its rhythms true and unbroken, like your soul.
Wingbeats of freedom on the wind of time.

Those who know us little will claim,
That savages mourn not for winged graves,
Their Hope is a lie and it too is dead.
My poetry no longer rhymes.

Yet I ever found solace in the flight of a raven,
My wildest love wore wings on her face,
And the wind, so sweet and harsh, swears justice.
'But there is Hope.'

Thus I look to time ahead and strive,
For a village without bloody hawks in chains,
Embraced in vines and moss and trees.
Spring will come to the mountain pass.


Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 23rd of Lleian, in the year 16 AC.