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A TALE FROM THE DEEP WOODS
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The ravens are on the wing!
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My scramasax is red (stained with the blood of many Mercian warriors),
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The ravens are on the wing,By Offa's decree I am an outlaw,
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Branded wolfshead by my own king.
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(The orm-garth awaits me, darkly astir with ophidian malice...)
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The ravens are on the wing!Ash for our spear-hafts,Yew for our bow-staves,
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Oak for our deck planks,Oak and elder our shields.
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Hail, o' great liege of the ancient woods, ruler of the deepest forest... you, who were reigning o'er your time-veiled kingdom centuries before the arrogant men who proclaim themselves kings of this island ever supped of life's bitter-sweet draught...
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I give you my hail,I give you my blood,I give you my life,O' sylvan liege.
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My life bleeds forth unto the earth (from many deep and dire wounds),
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To slake your roots, great old king... (as I rest my battle-ravaged body against thee.)
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The ravens are on the wing!Ten leagues ride on lathered steed,
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Gold in hand to a sword-for-hire,A blood-eagle carved by Saxon steel,
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And two score slain earns royal ire.Gwynned lies two days westwards,
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Still further south, the weregeld calls.Mayhap with All-Father Woden's favour,
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My deeds may yet inspire the skalds.
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Litha's moon gleams high o'er the tallest oak,
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Ancient king in this sylvan court of elm, ash and yew,
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The wood-spirits watch from gnarled bough and bole,
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As I pull two Mercian shafts from my bloodied thews.The ravens are on the wing!
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I give you my hail,I give you my blood,I give you my life,O' sylvan liege.
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Beneath the oak, I rest, bone weary,Thirsting for a horn of ale or jug of mead,
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And yet how could a heathen man wish for any more,
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Than the healing balms of English trees?The ravens are on the wing!
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A TALE FROM THE DEEP WOODS
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| Bal Sagoth |
