Degorram Posted December 7, 2009 Report Posted December 7, 2009 Between the fir trees and the fen, in a soft and golden, dewy glen, the blue birds here would often sing. They sang the songs of legends then, and often gave the sons of men the tales of flowing mane and wing: the tales of Aerie Andanen. The first was born beneath a pen; brought to life with magic then. Hooves like bells did ring. Eyes like jewels, liquid blue. Hair blacker than the crows that flew. What name to call this mighty king? The name of fearless Andanen. His mane was longer than the night. And on his back the tools of flight. White feathers among the black. His chest and sides of purest white; his legs and face were just as bright. The sky became his lofty track. Most graceful lord of Andanen. He flew away and called a star, brought her back from night afar. His children were of flame. He filled his nest with shining colts who at an age his light he molts. To be just like his father's name, The name of gloried Andanen. No more we see the wing unfurled. All have passed beyond this world, Those creatures of the glen. We cling to stories and to tales so that his legend never fails. A sad day it would be then to forget the beautiful Andanen.
Loki Wyrd Posted December 8, 2009 Report Posted December 8, 2009 My tongue trips over the second stanza. With that exception, it's a song to heard in taverns far and wide. =)
Recommended Posts