The Hallowing Of Heirdom

Old are the woods
And the buds that do break
From the coarse brier’s boughs
When the fierce winds wake
Old are our ways
As the streams that still rise
Where the snow now sleeps cold
In the deep azure skies
So, who are we now
A horde of their ghosts?
Or oaks that were acorns
From the trees of their hopes?
Sing of such a history
Of come and of gone
If their means they were wise
In ourselves they live on
So, who are we now
A horde of their ghosts?
Or oaks that were acorns
From the trees of their hopes?