One flying rage of far-reaching time and
multitude twisted skeins of doom-strands later,
I knew that I had been called.
By flowing breath, like fog streaming down the rock shelves,
I was made whole -- made hale -- made holy.
I cry my way, my wyrd, and walk just as the glint of a
raven's wing walks across the face of the long-watching wanderer,
that empty eye, that sighted sacrifice that dropped
into the depth from the hand of the Mead-dealer,
and I sing.
© Erich Campbell
by permission from his
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