O, the biting pulse of my memories
Gnawing the roots of my pain
O, the icy tendrils of the past
Striking my heart with a cold, whipping chill
O, the mountains’ moan
The cackling of the crows
Singing the forest’s refrain
Winds whistling through
My deep and wooded home
But I am deaf to the sound
The sound which has no name
An Ode to the Feral Heart
The wild one who roams
Without shame or guilt or fear
God and Man at once
The king without a throne
His spirit strikes you with wonder
His words are thick with truth
Like heavy drops of amber
That cloak the oaken bark
Gnawing the roots of my pain
O, the icy tendrils of the past
Striking my heart with a cold, whipping chill
O, the mountains’ moan
The cackling of the crows
Singing the forest’s refrain
Winds whistling through
My deep and wooded home
But I am deaf to the sound
The sound which has no name
An Ode to the Feral Heart
The wild one who roams
Without shame or guilt or fear
God and Man at once
The king without a throne
His spirit strikes you with wonder
His words are thick with truth
Like heavy drops of amber
That cloak the oaken bark
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