Cold - A Poem

Oft the wind doth wail
In this one land,
And the sun at eve doth fail,
And still my sword lies in my hand,
For I fear not death nor war.

Ere dawn does rise
And the world is woke,
The pale dawn doth prise
The night wind's rumour spoke,
And this is not liveing nor death.

As the men do ride
Forth unto the plains of war
I wish myself at their side,
And I do not know or feel anymore,
For this is a cage, not a life.

And as the warriors return,
Or not as may be
In this hall my rage it doth burn,
And I envy the men, and give pity to thee,
For in this live we shall die.

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