Gathering thorn-fern, bitter thorn-fern still green, all we talk of is home, going home. Autumn's ending, and there's no shelter for us, no family, thanks to those dog-face tribes, no time to sit, no ease for us thanks to those dog-face tribes.
Gathering thorn-fern, bitter thorn-fern still tender, all we talk of is home, going home, hearts grief-stricken, hearts bleak and cold grief-stricken, hunger dire and thirst worse. Frontier war drags on and on, no hope they'll send us home.
Gathering thorn-fern, bitter thorn-fern now tough, all we talk of is home, going home. Winter's begun, and still there's no pause in the emperor's work, no time to sit, and no ease for hearts stricken sick with grief. When we left, we left for good.
What's all this lavish splendor? It's a plum flaunting its bloom. And that, there on the road? It's our noble lord's war-cart, war-cart all harnessed up to four stallions fiery and strong. How will we ever stop and rest? Three battles a month we fight,
four stallions all harnessed up, four eager and strong stallions. A noble lord driving them on, we little ones shielding them, four surging stallions attack, ivory bow-tips, sealskin quiver. We keep watch. Those dog-face tribes -- they can strike so fast.
It was long ago when we left. Fresh willows swayed tenderly. And now we come back through driving sleet tangled in snow, the road long and deathly slow, hunger dire and thirst worse. Grief has so slashed our hearts no one could fathom our cries.
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timeasmymeasure
Gathering Thorn-Fern
Date: 2010-04-22 07:32 pm (UTC)Gathering thorn-fern, bitter
thorn-fern still green, all we
talk of is home, going home.
Autumn's ending, and there's
no shelter for us, no family,
thanks to those dog-face tribes,
no time to sit, no ease for us
thanks to those dog-face tribes.
Gathering thorn-fern, bitter
thorn-fern still tender, all we
talk of is home, going home,
hearts grief-stricken, hearts
bleak and cold grief-stricken,
hunger dire and thirst worse.
Frontier war drags on and on,
no hope they'll send us home.
Gathering thorn-fern, bitter
thorn-fern now tough, all we
talk of is home, going home.
Winter's begun, and still there's
no pause in the emperor's work,
no time to sit, and no ease for
hearts stricken sick with grief.
When we left, we left for good.
What's all this lavish splendor?
It's a plum flaunting its bloom.
And that, there on the road?
It's our noble lord's war-cart,
war-cart all harnessed up to
four stallions fiery and strong.
How will we ever stop and rest?
Three battles a month we fight,
four stallions all harnessed up,
four eager and strong stallions.
A noble lord driving them on,
we little ones shielding them,
four surging stallions attack,
ivory bow-tips, sealskin quiver.
We keep watch. Those dog-face
tribes -- they can strike so fast.
It was long ago when we left.
Fresh willows swayed tenderly.
And now we come back through
driving sleet tangled in snow,
the road long and deathly slow,
hunger dire and thirst worse.
Grief has so slashed our hearts
no one could fathom our cries.
.