Cold stone pressed against my cheek at dawn, Iron in the air where the braziers burned on. Small hands swallowed by a wolf-head crest, Winter in my lungs, no motherβs breast. Vesemirβs shadow by the training yard, Wooden blade striking frozen guard. Snow split open by a booted heel, Bread gone hard on a windowsill. Green glass trembling in a trembling hand, Bitter herbs and a silver brand. Veins lit white like a lightning scar, Breath held tight where the monsters are. White Wolf running through the pines at night, Twin blades flashing in the firelight. Steel for man and silver for the curse, Coins on the table, blessings reversed. Call me Gwynbleidd when the mead runs dry, I walk the line where the black birds fly. Market square with its rotting hay, Children point, then turn away. Tankard stops halfway to the lip, Knuckles whiten on a swordβs worn grip. Lilac and gooseberries in summer rain, Warm hands tracing the wolf-head chain. A child asleep by a dying flame, Soft breath whispering my name. White Wolf standing in the falling snow, Red on the path where the cold winds blow. Not every fang is meant to fall, Some debts are answered, not at all. Call me Gwynbleidd beneath the sky, I choose my road, though threads run high. Bootsteps fade on the mountain stone, Two swords singing, but I walk alone.
