Sing me a sad song,
and let the juices flow,
hold your voice up high,
when your yud has fallen low.
See eyes dilating,
fingers letting go,
blood is circulating,
through cream of Mistletoe.
Golden bow of Saefern,
whence our seeds fell,
innumerous like heavens,
and the Stars that dwell.
Sit with me in waiting,
and sip upon the vine,
entangled forms elating,
the loss of yours and mine.
Even mighty sallows,
yield unto the breeze,
seeming to surrender,
but springing back with ease.
Held by three sisters,
where Völva bled wid Ddru,
the Boann cannot restrict, her
hazel banks or rivers blue.
She is her own answer,
to questions old as time,
a waxing moon-lit dancer,
adjusting to the climb.
Milk thick as honey,
blood red on the snow,
the hunter is in mourning,
when the arrow is let go.
Pain is not the ending,
just a sign along the way,
woven wicks are mending,
need-fires of yesterday.
Listen to the voices,
hear, where we belong,
old things are a stirring,
in the Varrest's pantheon!
Thom Forester, 2017.
To the Saefern and her silent sister...
To dams and the fissures of men...
To tides and their torments...
To the deep soil that was,
... and shall be again!
Victory's Lament.
