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…