From the sound of his voice and reach of his arm,
For his song is death and his hand is war.”
The blue wisps curled from the lone logger’s hut,
Far down in the depths of the silent wood;
And shouts came loud from the boisterous crowd,
As they sapped the strength of the forest’s blood.
We were taught to fend, with a lunge and bend,
The spring of the lynx, with his snarling yelp;
We were shown to ride, with a single stride,
The charge of the wolf and his whining whelp.