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Winterfylleth

from Poetic License by The Crows Of Albion

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Viking/saxon spoken word poem over orchestration

lyrics

Winterfylleth (October)

We die! We die!
scream the old men
of the trees,
as their grip slips
from skeletal fingers
holding them aloft.

They fall to earth
in a blaze of golden glory,
coming to rest
at the feet of
great oaks, sycamores,
birch and elms.

Rustling in their cardigans
of orange and amber
like dry skin
in crimplene.

Those they have left creak and groan -
Remembering.

Children hurling
denuded femur
and fibula -
deadfall wood -
high into canopies
of fire,
to dislodge
the skulls of
horse chestnut
and acorn
for their
playground games.

All the while
the old men whisper
We die! We die!
as their bodies rot
into mulch
and a heavy scent
of decay
arises from their
death beds.

Never has
the passing of ancients
been so glorious.

credits

from Poetic License, released March 29, 2014

license

all rights reserved

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