Mourgana of the Fey

Hymn for the hooved

the old tannery stands hidden

among brackish water

that knows numerous answers

 

once a thriving heart

was found still beating

now riven rustic doors

 

hang sliding hoarse voices

speaking from each void

savaged beasts hold

a voiceless mirror reflected

 

staples stacked lavished leathery scent

from each bovine hide scarlet dried

blood songs are sung

through roughed vales

 

meandering green pastures

ethereally we still graze

 

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