I
For the beauty of the interlacing,
Dissonant and blissful calls of the wild-
Each tune for subtle ears an embracing.
Grasping the hands of both old and kind child.
Whimpering voice of how you chill the world-
Singing sonnets of both home and exiled.
Grasping the oaken woods of the old gnarled,
Kissing the broken waves of the new tears,
Holding each suckling sweet babe up curled,
Riveting up each maidens windfilled hair,
Embodying the core of crying men-
Even the joy can be heard in despair.
The dreadful calling of your holy sin,
Can be withheld in a winterfell wren.
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