Elysian
AU's Literary Magazine
Volume 3, Issue 2
Short Poems
DRAMA QUEEN
Amanda Maude Miner
I ask about a procedure,
And you say, with a cold demeanor,
“We’ve told you this before…”
Proving you’ll be queen forevermore.
Your petty attacks are vile,
Nothing short of juvenile.
You point out mistakes with glee
To satisfy your self-fulfilling prophecy.
Your ego is large and delicate.
It’s best to follow etiquette,
And not make a fuss,
Or be thrown under the bus.
I’ve tried to defend myself,
Only to be cut off and put on a shelf.
I hoped to be your ally and friend,
Only to be disappointed in the end.
It’s impossible to idolize
When you cower and criticize,
Traits that have no virtue;
I cannot help but pity you.
TIRED
Angie Lopez
I’m tired of all the ways
I’ve seized to be me
How all there is left is a little girl
Pretending to be mean and loud
To expand herself to all the corners of the room
Enter all discussion with nothing but pink on her tongue
And leave with the same blue in her eyes
And I wish I was the type of tired that I could chase away while counting sheep
Fly for a bit and land on a warm bed
But
I’m the type of tired that walks with shaking knees
And laughs at their clanking
I’m tired and I’m angry
But I’m too tired to stay angry
And too tired to feel love
And too tired to want to wake up after flying
Because maybe I’d rather go to sleep
pretend that the tired will leave
That the love isn’t just an excuse
And that the anger will quiet down
Either way
I remain tired
ONE NATION UNDER GOD
Brenda Castile-Munoz
I stood on a mountain underneath the Sky
Which gradually opened, revealing an Eye
It looked upon the east, west, north, and South
Then the earth’s lips parted and out of its Mouth
Rose the hands of my ancestors both servant and King
Joined together with one signet Ring
The ocean sprung forth and spoke to my Heart
We are your ancestors who gave you your Start
You are of the earth, the ocean, and Sky
You are of the one, revealing an Eye
THE VIRTUOUS ONE
Brenda Castile-Munoz
A kindly man appeared at my window one Night
While others were sleeping, he was within my Sight
He thought my garden green, now a desolate Land
Required the touch of a virtuous Man
Sun dried fruits, and vegetables Harden
Haven’t a place in a maiden’s Garden
Fertilize he would, every blade of Grass
To nourish each flower, he made it his Task
Appointed keeper of that sacred Ground
He unleashed a fountain once held bound
By summer’s drought and a slacking Hand
A mighty water rose, to the fruit it Ran
Up the vines of vitality
Filtering over to every Tree
Flower, vegetable, and Fruit
Rejuvenation started at the Root
My love, my favor, my heart was Won
By a man only known as the virtuous One
SOME DAYS
Brian Sutton
Some days, you exist.
Some days, you’re a ghost.
It can’t be helped.
We’re all a bit haunted in a way.
Some days, you’re a ghost.
Your skin shimmers like glass.
We’re all a bit haunted in a way.
Walls mean less when you can pass through.
Your skin shimmers like glass.
You’ve left something behind.
Walls mean less when you can pass through.
Lots of things don’t matter now.
You’ve left something behind.
It can’t be helped.
Lots of things don’t matter now.
Some days, you exist.
FIDELITY
Brian Sutton
He plays a different tune these days.
The reel starts over and the speakers
quake at the deep bass of a voice
shaped by glaring brass and whiskey
and late nights speaking with both hands
and no words in B flat.
The tape darkens the tone with every listen;
the magnet strip degrades little more.
"I used to play trombone," the song begins.
MIDNIGHT MEETINGS
Brooke Peters
Chimes of the grandfather clock call,
I know she’ll find me again tonight.
The light switch flicks
And I know it’s my time.
Hinges squeak and I see the light.
Eyeliner-stained fingertips push away
Pill bottles, lone q-tips, dust mites.
Black flecks stain my silver skin.
She doesn’t mind, she needs me.
I admire her new birthmarks from past meetings.
Streaks of red shade my secret canvas,
My own signature,
Carved into raised skin.
Pressure, pressure, pressure,
Release.
Beads of hot liquid boil before
My brushstrokes turn into waterfalls down her thigh.
Our session ends.
I’m hidden away from the judgement of dawn
Awaiting tomorrow.
ATTITUDE IS EVERYTHING
Constadina Liberides
Waiting around for a sign.
Who knows what life will bring us down the line?
Cryptic shadows or a sunny disposition.
It is up to us to make that decision.
Life does not always go according to plan.
At least that is how the saying goes.
For each soul wants to find purpose.
Instead, life pricks us like a thorn of a rose.
Searching the corridors of our hearts for answers.
Sometimes getting lost mends our fractures.
The unstable pieces of our hearts might shatter one day.
But for right now I am alive today.
Happiness and fulfillment.
Is what I hope life will bring me.
Disappointment, tears, and instability are always a possibility.
For I cannot predict this life of mine.
But with the right attitude I will thrive.
COOKIE DOUGH
Dana Drier
Before we made the trip out to Rockford
to bring her home with us,
the breeder would occasionally send photos of her:
a tiny pug, roughly the same size and shape
of a roll of unbaked cookie dough,
right out of the package.
She had a chocolate chip face
and a body like brown sugar
creamed with butter and flour.
And though she hadn’t been spooned out
onto a parchment lined tray
and baked at 350 degrees,
I could tell she was soft and warm.
TREE LIKE
Giana Mingilino
I am tree-like in this way,
rooted
grounded
deeply woven
slightly twisted
all-bark-and-no-bite
occasionally sappy
but mostly shady
damaged, yet
strong too.
~
I am tree-like in this way,
bearing fruit which tempt you
to take a piece of me as you please
till I am left with nothing but bare flesh.
Still, at my core I know this to be true
just as trees do so very often
I soon will once again bloom.
I am tree-like in this way,
too.
MIND GAMES
Jada Golden
She hesitates to remove the silk cloth; however,
Within minutes of looking at the white material,
it falls to the floor with a simple tug.
The skin in the reflective mirror does not fit societal standards.
The overpour of the hips in low cut jeans,
The stomach sticks out far more than prenatal stages,
The breasts that no longer lift on their own,
The face that is full of bumps, and valleys,
The hair that dries straight, and the color of dirt.
The mirror that reveals these attributes
Is not to
Blame,
But instead,
The mind within the
Body,
Which is mine.
SOUL
Jada Golden
We move from body to body,
But our souls replenish.
Our soul is the hardcover,
Staying the same
As time passes.
Our memories are the pages,
Being ripped out by the spine,
Replaced with anew.
Different versions of who we can be
To see what our soul is capable of.
ODE TO ICE CREAM
Makenzie Rehfeldt
Oh, ice cream,
How delectable you are
Rich, sweet, smooth to eat,
And an endless supply of flavors
I never know which to choose
Mint chip, cookie dough?
Too many flavors that put me in a good mood
You cool me down on a hot summer’s day
Like taking a dip in a swimming pool.
My eyes light up when I get a new gallon
As the smell of mint hits my nostrils
I can’t scoop you out fast enough
You are like heaven in a bowl
When there’s no more of you left
I become filled with sadness
Your stay was just too short
But I won’t fret for come tomorrow
I’ll have another one of you in the freezer
So, I’ll sit on the couch, and watch a movie
With a spoon and a bowl of your mouth-watering flavor
YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE
Megan Conrad
The ocean stops.
The moon sways, longing to leave the sky. Then, in an instant, the ocean panics
Using it’s waves to try and help
Pushing you to shore.
Screaming to you,
Keep kicking.
But your body has a different plan.
Your lungs smirk as water fills them.
Your legs refuse to support you,
deciding to pull you closer to the end. Your arms begin prancing defiantly, mocking you. Everyone knows what’s coming.
The ocean stops.
The moon sways, then turns away.
The waves can no longer help.
SELF HARM
Nathan Yockey
Steady hands run the tattoo needle,
a molten fillet knife,
with its fine tip down my forearm.
A blissful pain, the rattle of the blade
hushes my thoughts, with its bite against my skin.
A tributary of blood runs
around my arm and drips
It’s wiped up, the ink smears
as the needle’s lashes tell my story.
Painting a picture with an assembly of scars,
a collection of colors and shaded darkness
that form something
SPACE
Nolan Thilk
Tonight, I wake to look up at the sky
Remembering how it felt when I was there,
And how it felt to travel anywhere,
Not doubting even once that I could fly.
Sheer happiness as I recall myself
Flying out among planets near and far,
Or gazing into the heart of a star,
Recollections that mean more than all wealth.
Maybe none of it’s real and I was wrong,
And all my memories are only dreams.
That simply isn’t true, though. It can’t be.
I know that space is still calling to me,
Out from the distant depths where I belong.
Nothing is quite exactly what it seems
THE SUN
Nolan Thilk
I think it might be fun
To fall into the sun.
I’ll leave the world behind
Along with all my cares
And swim in the fiery sea.
I’ll be blinded by the light
That binds together all
Life on Earth, and maybe
Then I’ll be able to
see everything clearly.
I’ll become a part of
Something larger, much
Larger, than myself,
and finally be free.
I’ll find refuge in the yellow
Flames and solace in the
Solar flares. Yes, I think
I’ll leave the Earth and
Fall into the sun, because
I think would be fun.
But if in fact it’s not,
Then it will just be hot.
PAST RELICS
Paul Pope
Tarnished nostalgia
wet grass, crushed cans, late sunsets. Steel strikes
flint - exhale.
BANANA BREAD
Zach Ramsdell
She made banana bread with a recipe she keeps in her head,
or else I don’t know where it comes from - some motherly
place, where intuition and recipes are stored. When she tried
it, her smile fell into a frown, and she said that it was dry.
She said that we should throw it away. I’m not sure what
dry banana bread tastes like, but hers tasted like the vanilla
she asked me to buy at the store, and the bananas that we
ignored, and I remember she put a Beatle’s record on the
turntable while she baked, and she had a little bit of flour
in her hair from where she tucked it behind her ears.
I’m not sure what dry banana bread tastes like, but her
banana bread tasted fine to me.
HAIKU
Zach Ramsdell
Water in the stream
flows with ease around the rock.
Don’t fight the current.
MEMORY
Zach Ramsdell
reaching tenderly to touch a shadow
speaking softly to myself
holding gently onto nothing
kissing sweetly only a memory
Volume 3, Issue 2
Long Poems
A SUNDAY AFTERNOON ON THE ISLAND OF LA GRANDE JATTE
Dalin Johnson
Playing Masterpiece as a child,
the card I never auctioned off,
the card I always hoped to be dealt,
the card I was always willing to buy,
no matter its worth.
Then, at the Art Institute in Chicago —
a rather boring field trip for me otherwise.
Right at the entrance,
the only painting that caught my eye,
“Hey, that’s the one in Masterpiece!”
Then, in Digital Design
the last class of the day,
senior year of high school.
The painting I chose to modernize
for my project, without question,
“I’ll use the painting from Masterpiece!”
A cartoon puppy, in place of the brown dog.
A rainbow beach umbrella, in place of the black parasol.
A floppy baseball cap, in place of the flowered hat.
A sunbathing Barbie, in place of the kneeling girl.
A blue lightsaber, in the hands of the woman facing the shore.
A bike helmet, in place of the black top hat.
A robotic dog, in place of the runaway puppy at the lady’s foot.
A lone outhouse, in an empty space of grass.
A modern drone in the air to the left.
A red fire hydrant, at the waist of the lady with the orange umbrella.
And plans for a vibrant New York skyline across the pond,
and a cartoon cumulonimbus behind the trees.
Plans made on Friday, March 13th, 2020,
my last day at that old desktop in the art room.
And now, just snapshots of my progress,
hidden in the memories on my phone.
“One year ago today,” but left unfinished.
Still no vibrant New York skyline across the pond,
Still no cloud behind the trees.
Plans left for a Monday that never came.
SUNDAY
Dalin Johnson
Awakened by the painful sun,
that now marks the middle of the sky.
A full morning wasted —
the result of a foolishly late Saturday
and the bitter fantasy of a productive Sunday.
A putrid gasp at the clock
that has somehow travelled much too fast.
An eye roll at the list of to-do’s,
that seems much too long for what is already
a late Sunday afternoon.
The colorless nostalgia of the weekend,
Overshadowed by the thought of an early tomorrow.
In rigid reflection of the procrastination,
and a roaring mumble, never again will I say,
“I’ll just leave it for Sunday.”
As the ominous clock of the sun sets,
and the loud honesty of tomorrow shines through,
The idea of morning furrows my brow.
In muffled pondering of the dreaded week,
What has become of this dwindling Sunday?
Awakened by the peppered shriek of an alarm,
And the chilling cold of the bright moon,
Burnt exhaustion freezes the illusion
of yesterday’s angers —
For anything is better than this rancid Monday.
TOYS
Dalin Johnson
Ouch!
I yelled, running
to the kitchen between classes.
Why are toys in the hallway?
I can’t wait for the kids to go back to school.
I have class in less than a minute.
Ouch, again.
I kicked another toy,
This time, into my room.
A yellow wooden block,
with a letter carved on one side.
Scattered behind me,
Red, blue, green, and yellow —
The remains of a tower,
One just like I used to build.
My grandparents bought the blocks,
And Opa built me the wooden box.
Stacked together, they fit perfectly.
Four blocks wide, four blocks high,
I still remember.
And a sliding lid, with “Dalin”
painted on top.
¡Hola clase!
I hear, still pondering
how far I have come.
Lying in the hallway,
scattered and strewn,
is my very first teacher,
that taught me colors,
letters, and numbers.
The toys that laid the foundation,
The building blocks,
For the education I am receiving,
In this very moment,
Education that not everyone is blessed to receive,
Not even Oma and Opa.
Don’t take it for granted,
I tell myself,
Even if it’s not how I imagined it to be.
¡Adios clase!
I hear, just as quickly as it begun.
THE MIDWEST
Emily Samp
Bright flowers, the sun shining,
cannon balls off the side of the pool.
Barbecue on the grill.
Children running toward the music playing
from the ice cream truck down the road.
Dogs barking and leaping through the freshly cut grass.
The smell of burning wood on a warm night,
as angelic laughter filled the air.
The earthy pine scent and long lit days
left a prosperous joy.
Then one day, a crisp wimper comes
from the trees. Crying sunflowers
everywhere you look. A colorless gap between
what was and what is.
A screeching sizzle driving on ice.
You feel the burning cold as it hits your face.
Trapped in the trigonometry of torture.
The next 4 months, a static climb.
The bitter reality of living in the Midwest.
GIVE ME A GOD I CAN RELATE TO
Giana Mingilino
Give me a God I can relate to,
one whose brain out of the blue
and for no good reason at all reminds him of that one time
of that one super embarrassing thing he did five years ago
that probably no one even remembers but like, for some reason
it matters right this very moment.
Does he hang his head low when he asks himself,
“Why did I do that?”
Give me a God I can relate to,
perhaps a God with a bad habit
he just can’t seem to kick.
A habit like, ugly torn up cuticles he keeps reminding himself
to leave alone as he tears off another piece of skin
because instant gratification feels so so good.
Does he feel question his persistent habits,
“Why can’t I stop?”
Give me a God I can relate to,
give me one who is downright terrified
of what the future holds because suddenly
nothing feels right anymore.
A God who is so worried that he feels
as if concrete has been poured down his throat,
left to harden until there is no more air left to breathe.
Does he hold himself tight with hot tears and an aching chest asking,
“What is my future? Why can’t I see?”
Tell me.. can God relate to me at all?
CANADA FARM
Jada Golden
The glass window separates me from
Chilly,
Yet, friendly air.
Green scenery moves far too quickly
Making it hard to clearly
See.
Being lost in thought of being greeted,
With warm hugs from the sun,
With the love language of the rustling leaves,
With in-tune singing from the baby birds.
The glass windows picture
Halts,
With a mesmerizing canvas.
Green corn stalks come into view.
Emerging from the cage to become
Free.
The greeting of the new country is remarkable with
The air kissing my skin
Shocking the hairs on my arm,
The laughing of the gravel grows
As the shoes walk upon it,
The home invites the girl with open arms.
PSALM
Joey Ruddy
Today I am a teacher
Yesterday I wanted to be a rock star
Tomorrow I want to be a priest
laid out shades of plaid
with the tenderness of a new parent soothing an infant
a pair of grey
cargo or khaki
pressed and cleaned
faintly smelling
of lavender
in my plaid, I am property of the establishment
Today I am a teacher
Yesterday I wanted to be a rock star
Tomorrow I want to be a priest
awakened black denim
splashed with bleach
jagged rips and tears
intentional homage
to the unintentional icons
in my jeans resides the carcass of a smoke
in my jeans I am property of no one
Today I am a teacher
Yesterday I wanted to be a rock star
Tomorrow I want to be a priest
Behold the robe
Plain and simply displayed
Still in its sheath, the muffled call of the rosary
Olive tree beads click in the deep pockets
Like tiny heartbeats
In my robe, I am property of the Lord
Today I am a teacher
Yesterday I wanted to be a rock star
Tomorrow I want to be a priest
BASEBALL
Makenzie Rehfeldt
I watched the Superbowl on Sunday,
rooting for the underdogs to win.
Wrapped in a blanket to keep warm from the frigid
temperatures outside.
As I watched men run up and down the field
and longed for warm summer days
a word popped into my head, baseball.
That word brought back happy memories
Wrigley field on a hot summer day,
the smell of hot dogs and pizza,
crowds of people walking around the stadium.
Walking seventeen blocks to the stadium every game
Freezing on a cold day behind the first base line
Or sweating out in the left field bleachers
Watching memorable games from the upper deck
game six of the NLCS, Rossy’s last game at Wrigley.
My dad sitting next to me,
the two of us sharing a nacho helmet
bonding over our love of the game.
And when the new season starts
I will put on my dad’s favorite Cubs hat
and watch games knowing he is watching with me
from up above
BLACK HOLE
Makenzie Rehfeldt
All I feel is pain
Like being stabbed in the heart
All I feel is emptiness
Like a vacant building
The rain falls in a thunderous stream
The drops stinging as they hit my skin
Creating puddles of mud in the grass
I look around the open field
A vast space filled with lost souls
Reminding me that nothing lasts forever
I look at the faces of those here
Looking at me as if I am a fragile piece of glass
Waiting for me to break at any moment
Standing next to the wooden box
I admire the shiny sleek look of it
An array of purple flowers laying atop it
My eyes travel to the hole beneath it
Like a black hole that will suck me into oblivion
This hole is not meant for me though
It is meant for the one that created me
And as he is lowered into the ground
I feel another piece of my heart break and go with him
BRAVE NEW LOVE
Meghan Kelly
The night we met, you took my hand and twirled me
around,
Your emerald eyes glistening from the Christmas
lights on the tree we spun around
When I laughed out of surprise,
You told me we didn’t need music to dance.
My early self didn’t understand then what I know now;
We are the music.
The girl that showers twice a day has found herself
Wearing the same sweatshirt to sleep every night.
I find myself dizzy in your cologne,
find it hard to change my sheets because you linger
on them.
My concrete barriers have melted like snow in
Spring.
Every day is flowers and sweet grass
And that perfect warm breeze that tickles the skin.
I feel your heart beat against mine and it is more
familiar than my own,
The sweet thumping of finally being called home.
FACE MASK
Meghan Kelly
My bright, bloodshot eyes stare back at me in the
mirror
The attempt to rub away sleep was unsuccessful
My eyes wander the bathroom and land upon the
bottles on the shelf
CeraVe and Cetaphil and the Ordinary and the
Aztec Healing Clay
The bottles litter the shelves the same way my acne
litters my face
I want to wash my face. I want to apply my serums.
I want to exfoliate and moisturize.
I just can’t.
The haunting consumes me.
When I sat next to you in that hospital bed,
The one where I watched your skin recede into your
boney cheeks
The one where I held your hand, your grip no longer
strong enough to clasp back
In your darkest and last days,
The days the cancer ate you from the inside out
The days where the chemo forced your eyes closed,
unable to carry conversation
The days that the sacral infection made you fight
harder than you should have
The days that the cancer made you lose the parts
that made you you,
The days that I no longer knew how to help
The days I realized you were beyond saving,
beyond miracle, beyond living
We did face masks.
MY LIFE
Moncerat Santiago
I am from pictures worth a thousand words,
From pillows that are soft and full of sorrow,
From fairy lights that are small, blue, and bright,
And a dreamcatcher that gives me hope.
I am from a room that is cold, yet full of memories.
I am from three small and spacious bedrooms,
From a living room where we spill all our problems,
From a kitchen where everyone argues,
From a yard where both of my dogs play,
And a garage worth a ton of memories.
I am from a beautiful, yet broken home.
I am from a small town,
From noise of the boats racing that everyone enjoys,
From roads being constructed all the time,
And the home of the biggest impacts in my life.
I am from a place I left yet missed greatly.
I am from people who are not afraid to embrace
their culture,
From hard workers who don’t get credit,
From a land known for problems,
And the place I gave my heart to.
I am from a country so beautiful, yet so dangerous.
I am from people who left behind family to give them
a better life,
From people who sacrifice everything to get nothing in return,
From people that who yearned for more knowledge,
but ended up working instead,
And from drama caused amongst each other.
I am from kindhearted, yet cold hearted people.
I am from a world of no violence and racism,
From finding a cure for cancer,
From dreams of becoming successful for my parents
and myself,
And a wish for society to change its ways.
I am a future full of seemingly impossible
expectations.
NOSEY CRITTERS
Nathan Yockey
It was November, a clear morning, cold too. I was crunching old snow hiking through a muskeg below Luck Crick 2.
My old lab Red and I hiked side by side under white skies
As cold ached my knees and wind chilled my ears. We ducked under trees and climbed hills in search of blacktail deer.
Steam blew out from under my old cap that stunk from my morning coffee, black like the chewing tobacco dip beneath my bottom lip.
Arms tucked tight to keep my warm, with my thumbs under my suspenders against my wool flannel, worn.
I looked down to Red, where his gold fur had turned grey under his eyes and the foam around his mouth agape told me that the old dog needed a break.
Him and I found a dry, mossy log in the timber to pop a squat. Protected but peeking out of the trees in case a buck walked out, and we had a shot.
We rested while I rubbed behind Red’s ears until I heard something crack a stick in the muskeg over yonder.
I put one hand on my sling and the other on Red’s collar.
The butt of my rifle against my torn Carhartt denim, 30-06 bullets jangling against the can of Copenhagen in ‘em.
I stood up and my face turned as pale as my scraggly beard, because what had trotted into that muskeg was not a deer.
A ma and pa pair of Alexander Archipelago wolves and their pups, a few months old, no more than three, were in that clearing less than 25 yards from Red and me.
The cold wind blew our faces like the back of a sail, Red bowed his head, tucked his tail and whined a low wail.
But they trotted right past us across the muskeg, idle without a care. The wind. They didn’t know we were there.
The fluffy calico pups wrestled and played, and their parents found a shade tree to watch and lay, just like Red by the fireplace.
Slowly with a raised eyebrow I sat and laid my rifle across my thighs, and Red and I looked on with cataract eyes until we realized, these critters are just dogs we have demonized.
So, we sat in the winter wind and watched humbly for a while.
And as papa napped with his head on his snow-white paws, mom laid her chin across his back, one of the pups and I locked our gaze, and I gave him a wink.
Panting, with his tongue out he returned my grin with his own puppy dog smile.
3AM THOUGHTS
Nolan Thilk
Isn’t it strange how the Earth
is constantly turning, but we
don’t even feel it? We’re
just aimlessly floating through
space and time, completely
untethered, entirely alone.
I feel like that right now,
aimless and alone, like I have
no direction, no purpose,
nobody to turn to but myself,
and I’m afraid I don’t really
enjoy my own company.
I’m afraid of a lot of things,
really. Death, life, myself,
the universe, the future…
Isn’t it kind of weird how the
future never actually arrives,
because the present always
comes to take its place?
All I can think about right now,
though, is the past, my past, and
all the things in it that I’m
ashamed of, all the things I’ve
done but wish I hadn’t done,
all the things I didn’t do
that I wish I did. I really wish
right now that I could put
my mind at ease again, and
drift back to sleep, because I
know that when the morning
comes, I’ll forget all of these
thoughts, forget about my
fears, regrets, musings. But
until then, I’m stuck with them.
I could fall back asleep, I suppose,
but I can’t seem to be able to
right now. These burning thoughts
are keeping me awake. What is
it about 3 a.m. that makes it so
easy to dwell on everything you
hate about your life? What is it
that makes this time so ideal for
thinking about life, death, time,
the universe, all the things you
don’t really think about otherwise?
I don’t know. I guess that’s a
thought for tomorrow’s 3 a.m.
AT THE CROSSROAD
Teagen Petersen
UNDER THE STARS
Daniel Chacon
Hear how the winds shriek and whine
As daylight swiftly fades, still
Remember what for, the stars do shine
Shadows loom among the tree and vine
Our bond wanes, our courage chills
Hear how the winds shriek and whine
Turn to the dim glow for which you pine
Warm your heart, steel your will
Remember what for, the stars do shine
Despair around our hearts entwines
From the howls, dire and shrill
Hear how the winds shriek and whine
We had ignored the ancestral sign
So the starlight deserted the hill
Where are all the stars that shine?
From the heavens, justice divine
Eternal terror it did instill
Hear how the winds shriek and whine
As the stars no longer shine