Words Of The Wind

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 blossoms anew beneath tomorrow's sun.

 

gameroffear gameroffear
36-40, M
Aug 12, 2010