Hear now the wind on the open plain, Where grass bends low and stands again. Before the rot, before the thorn, There walked a druid, eastward born. Chant Chorus Wind remember. Thorn remain. End the rot. Hold the plain. Still the dead. Still the land. By his word, The line shall stand. He spoke to wind, not loud, not proud, He listened where the world was bowed. The plains all knew his steady tread, Where life lay soft and dead lay dead. They called him Voice of eastern air, A keeper’s oath, a watcher’s care. No crown he wore, no blade he drew, The land itself his truth, his due. Chant Chorus Wind remember. Thorn remain. End the rot. Hold the plain. Still the dead. Still the land. By his word, The line shall stand. But seasons cracked and roots withdrew, The earth grew cold, the silence grew. The goddess slept, or turned away, And prayers fell flat at break of day. The wind still spoke, but changed its tone, It whispered grief, it groaned alone. And in that hush, that hollow space, The druid faced a darker grace. Chant Chorus Wind remember. Thorn remain. End the rot. Hold the plain. Still the dead. Still the land. By his word, The line shall stand. “If rot must reign, then let it end. If death must come, then let me bend Its course away from endless pain, And bind its reach with thorn and chain.” So briars rose where hope lay still, A grove that bent to iron will. No bloom returned, no seed took hold, But rot fell quiet, checked and cold. Chant Chorus Wind remember. Thorn remain. End the rot. Hold the plain. Still the dead. Still the land. By his word, The line shall stand. They cursed his name, they feared his sight, Yet slept in peace through bitter night. For where he stood, the dead lay calm, And borders held by thorn and psalm. Not death he loved, nor ending sought, But silence where the land was caught. A final line, a closing door, So all would suffer just once more. Chant Chorus Wind remember. Thorn remain. End the rot. Hold the plain. Still the dead. Still the land. By his word, The line shall stand. Now hear the wind, how slow it sighs, It speaks his name as truth, not lies. No hero’s song, no tyrant’s blame, Just balance paid in ending’s flame. Remember this when roots grow thin, And rot wears faith away within. The arch druid stands where cycles bend, Not lord of death, but warden of the end. Chant Chorus Wind remember. Thorn remain. End the rot. Hold the plain. Still the dead. Still the land. By his word, The line shall stand.
