Old Man From The Barrow
came to sing for me last night.
He stood outside my window
when the moon was full and bright.
His face was hard as diamond;
his eyes were cold as ice.
His voice was like a bond
that gripped me in a vise.
And he sang to me--
of the stars overhead,
of his home underground.
And he'd come to be wed,
though I heard not a sound
as he sang to me.
He trod upon the crystals
of the newly forming frost.
With each step I felt a thrill
and I knew I was lost.
Bathed within the moonlight,
his coat of verdigris.
I knew I could not fight
for he had come for me.
The Old Man from the Barrow
will return again tonight.
As the icy wind does blow,
we'll perform the ancient rite;
for what's bred within the bone
is revealed in the flesh.
Had my ancestors known
or could this be their wish?