Friends of old, from days ago,
appear again outside our door
while shadows warn of threat drawn nigh
for all to heed their very life.
Where still the winds then thicks the fog,
a mullered anger wields its maul
from depths of wretched malcontent
its need to savage, tear, torment
the souls of those, who nair it knows,
yet feasts upon in search of gold,
as from its hidden halls it speaks
to valleys deep and mountain peaks,
where lies in wait both day and night
those prepared to wake the light
where which the witch it witches true
and pure the light from which construe
the spirits of the innocent
to wield the swords from heaven sent,
the violent vein of wrath to end
the violent reign of wrath.
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