The wind is still.
The trees are sad.
The night is dark and solemn.
Our son has come home
in cold whispers and tale.
We saw him leave home to fight.
We sang a song for his homecoming.
We sat around burning logs
to tell his gruesome spear write
the history of our land.
But tonight is different!
It is the ominous voice of the Owl that we hear.
Our men whisper in small circles.
Our women hide behind thatched doors.
Our son is come home a hero
borne on the shoulders,
our his surviving mates.