The Cliffs

Oh, barons and lords, your kingdom will fall,

these waters will rise and unseat your throne,

old stories will wake in long standing stones,

Oh, barons and lords, your kingdom will fall.

Now, masters, be fearful and hold your tongue,

these shores yet resound to old legends sung,

and death is no hindrance to righters of wrong,

now, masters, be fearful and hold your tongue.

For legends begun are unfolding still,

for blood lines the clay beneath every hill,

and though our means and our freedoms won’t furnish your fill,

this cold, sweeping sickle of death surely will.

Chains of the land, you have surely made your mark,

and the sun disappears sure as axe’s arc,

the frost of the night will the grass bedew,

and still we will stay true.

Far below, the headlands rest, steadying our feet,

a solitary heart beats a rhythm in the dark,

and we shall rise to answer.

A whisper of a myth ringing up and down the cliffs,

is a sign of the time when our chains will lift,

the cost of the fight will to us be due,

but still we will stay true.

Far below, the headlands rest, steadying our feet,

a solitary heart beats a rhythm in the dark,

and we shall rise to answer.