Nostalgic Be The Still Of Night

Nostalgic be the still of night
Set be forth this sacred light
Notable be the deeds of men
That wipes the blood from their hands

No promise breed unless I speak
For now my body’s grown tired and weak

The shattered splinters sharp as stone
Belittle me with broken bones
Less I be ill, then to tired to sleep
No promise left for here I weep

Belittle me with withered hand
But here I am, and still a man
Borne alone within this land
Promise be thy withered hand

Burden be the winds that creep
While the leaves rustle past my feet
Less I’m ill and too tired to speak
Humbled be the soul, by which I keep
Where now I rest my head to sleep