I sing a lay of long defeat,
the end of a lifetime, the pause
before something else begins.
Is there nobility in lost battle,
lost land, lost beliefs? I have
to think yes, that honor still
survives, that we died good deaths
for good reasons.
But, oh, Andrasta, Raven of Battle,
how we once ached for victory.
I sing a lay of long defeat,
the end of hope, the cries
of my warriors, the tears
of my daughters, the long nights
trying to remember a time
when we were free, when Rome
was not a curse, when we could read
the future in the howling wind
and be haunted only by our own
twisted breathless dreams in the night.
But, oh, Andrasta, Raven of Nightmares,
how we once ached for solace.
I sing a lay of long defeat,
when long nights and lost voices
told of another world. The forest,
filled with sound, mist-drenched
and ghostly, a place I still haunt,
my shadow flitting in that liminal
space between here and the hereafter:
the only way I can still be part
of this land once loved as home.
But oh, Andrasta, Raven of Mystery,
how we once ached for divination.
I sing a lay of long defeat,
the gray wolf running through
the pines, the flutter of dark wings
in the night, all portents of what lay
ahead, for in the swirling autumn
mists of Albion, the light of freedom
flickered in my hands… and went out.
But oh, Andrasta, Raven of Death,
how we did once ache for life.