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The Hunter
Piercing the horns of The Hunt as it gathers,
summoning forth the Lord of the ride.
Spears flash sharp silver saluting the moonlight,
waiting to unlesh the hot bloody tide.
The hounds slip their traces and fly to their
master,
belling and barking their song of delight.
While mortal curs cringe and cower in shadow,
they know in their sinews The Hunt rides tonight.
Chorus:
Who is the Lord of the long winter madness,
the sharp tooth of vengeance, the hard hand of cold?
Whatever his nature tonight have no question,
the Hunt-Lord is riding as he rode of old.
The blood lust holds fast now the horde in its
clutches.
Nothing will sate them but two-legged prey.
The terror of men is the sport they most fancy,
too cold and too cruel for the broad day of light.
Rending the sky on a steed of dark fortune,
He spurs ahead of the host in its flight.
While winds howl a warning to field and to forest:
Take shelter, take shelter, the Hunt rides tonight!
Chorus.
Fear is the fate of the fools who fall foul of them.
Though death is quick at the end of the race.
Less tender their mercies to cowards and laggards
who whimper and tremble or give them poor chase.
Stone face he stands in the blood of the fallen
appearing unmoved by the many who´ve died.
His cry tears the night as he orders his host,
"To horse, now, companions, the Hunt Lord would ride!"
Chorus.
The Hunt rides the cold breath of winter´s
dominion.
The strenghthening dark feeds the furious fey.
Their Lord leads more southward with each passing evening.
Stand fast, my fair kin-folk, the Hunt rides this way.
At turning of winter, we honor the Hunter
´Tis he culls the herds of both human and beast.
Lift up now your voices, good folk of the kin-stead,
Tonight is the night we must bid him to feast.
© Laurel Mendes