Still was the night before the fight
Loud were the horns of warning
Deep were our sighs and dark the eyes
That met ours in the morning
The fight’s to begin, and what’s to be said?
The sky is melting an orange-red
The host now hovers, a haunting gray
Our throats constrict, lest we might pray
O shield Thou not Thy face!
Cold was the night before the fight
Warm was the sun-soaked dawning
Bright was the lance that broke our trance
And tore the veil of morning
The fight’s to begin; men straddle their steeds
I know they’ll be hacked down like weeds!
My words feel dry, my tongue like clay
What hope can I give? What more can I say?
O shield Thou not Thy face!
Strong was the will of Man to kill
But Woman’s will was strongest
Clear was her choice and clear her voice
That screamed our war-cry longest
The fight’s to begin – who is that fair lad
With hair the color of coastal sand
And eyes like frozen ocean spray…
Where have I seen him before today?
O help me place that face!
Hard rode the steeds at breakneck speed
Galloping down the valley
Taut were the bows pulled back by our foes
And woodcuts marked their tally
The fight has begun, and what’s to be done?
Our tears have like a river run
Our prayers are like the salt that stings
Carried up on broken wings
O shield Thou not Thy face!
Long was the night before the fight
Short was the red-hued dawning
Keen was the sword and keen the word
That pierced the mist-cloaked morning
The fight is hard-pressed; what’s left unto me?
My soul is tossed like the wine-dark sea
My breath like a sob, my heart like a drum
My mind still pleads without my tongue
O shield Thou not Thy face!
Hard was the night before the fight
Liquid the golden dawning
Hard was the fight before the flight
Which splintered their ranks that morning
By darkest of deaths…the lad is a lass!
Her eyes as searing as ocean glass
Her voice is pure, her sword is clean
The light reflecting casts a sheen
Upon my bloodied face…
Quiet the dusk and gold the rust
That once had glowed in the dawning
But the witch king is dead; his life-wound runs red
As crimson as early morning
The battle is over, but when ends the war?
I ask upon the plain of gore
The touch of my kin; the lass is a queen
I know the brown leaves will turn green
And we will see Thy face…