Where is the horse and the rider?
Where is the giver of rings?
Where now is the golden hall;
who's rafters with ballads ring?
Alas for my sword brother,
clad in his coat of mail!
Alas for the silver cup,
Flowing with mead and ale!
Alas for my Lord forgotten,
Sleeping in Darkness' veil.
Alas for ancient walls,
We once thought would never fail.
Alas for my fallen brothers,
felled with shattered spears,.
Alas for my shattered soul,
victim of oft mocked fears.
Now all the world is Darkness,
Where Death now takes his hold.
Empty of sagas and champions,
of glory and warriors bold.
Here gold has lost its lustre,
Jewels a nest of dust.
Old friends pass from memory,
As iron turns to rust.
Thus spoke the Wanderer,
With countenance of grief,
Of times nigh forgotten,
With time left so brief.
Tears stream down his leathered face
Turned by the wind to ice
Upon the mound of his fallen Lord
No comfort will suffice
The sky grows dark and ashen grey
As Winter bears her teeth
As the Wanderer confronts the face of Time
That ever present thief
His aching bones shall soon return
To the Earth from whence he rose
Where his oaken frame, byrny clad
May rest in earned repose
Doth the Wanderer waste his breath?
Do his words fall on wooden ears?
Or doth his spirit echo,
Across the hoary years?
So will you harken to his words,
And feel the rythym of the hall?
Place the spear upon your shoulder,
Answer the ancestors' call!