Hear the lute,
Of Haencam,
Singing mournfully,
For a dead lover
Drowned in the sea,
Swallowed by the white waves.
See the moaning surf leap.
And a tear may be given
To the tragic harp's notes,
Of burned cities under the night,
Of the devoured queen
In the red inferno,
Terrors told,
And terrors felt.
Sweet and haunting flute,
Innocent note of a spring bird,
Betrays its promised song-telling,
And sings of a killer,
Murderer of the dawn,
And the flying dirks.
And of justice that was not,
And the woman weeping
By a dying fire.
But spilling night into the sky,
The west-flame cools,
And hence Haencam tells
The listening Sprights that gather.
A grey funeral in the fall rains,
Marks the end of a dynasty of the sun.
Now cold brick world, tells Haencam,
Golden strands torn out and taken
To be traded for rubies.
And forest killed and Lady stabbed,
A roar in the North;
All perished in dread and terror.
For Haencam tells
Of that which is,
But haunts like only song.