A Ravens Song

Under a frigid sun, where ravens call;
An abyssal strain, their grim refrain.
A song of ice, lo, of wisdom's sacrifice;
Mournful melodies of the forgotten
Of their tragic fates misbegotten.

Under the pine, birch, and spruce;
Morose spirits roost, in fretful truce.
Waiting, wailing; glories without respite. Repeated by the north wind's might,
Sung throughout the winter night

Yet only the bravest, the finest of which;
Carried to Valhalla, on black wings of pitch.
For only Odin's ears to hear and know.
As the aurora reflects in virgin snow;
It's slow rhythm, gyrating, to and fro.

As the deep night symphony settles there; Valkyries ride to reap their ghastly fare.
The spirits reach out, voices entreating.
To claim the prize, a warm smile greeting; Valhalla's hallowed halls, in feast, seating.