jueves, 8 de febrero de 2007

Poem VIII

The solstice of blood
is rearing up again.
No more will the bard sing
of harvest fields blooming.

Here we walk,
hands tied together,
to the endless night.

When the foe makes his promise
and your weakness takes his toll,
the blood will be awakened by the call
of the fields and the firelights.




Creative Commons License





No hay comentarios: