On the eve of Winter's encroaching shadow,
the sounds of weeping,
echo across the barren fields,
like the gentle brush of falling leaves in the Autumn
they gently cascade through the air,
to the resonance of a decidedly different tranquillity.
A promise foretold through myth and Winter's
as the snow shaman weaves the tapestry of life and death,
a certain knowledge has been given to us,
passed down from the elders in remote days,
a fact, my mistress knows all too well,
for it therein the mystery resides a primal secret,
not meant for mortal eyes.
But of the truth,
can we bare the weight of knowing?
While outside a cold wind stirs the darkness,
and it chills the soul,
like death shadows cast by a raven in the snow.
Sixpence More The Richer
by Lloyd Michael Lohr
In the bleak morning,
I toss a coin into the wishing well,
a votive tithe for the fates,
in hopes that all your muses do not abandon you,
you're darkest hour of need.