turning, turning, turning.
covered by the sheets.
wind is blowing, he says:
get up, its not time to sleep.
far away, can you listen?
theres a feeble sound.
the horns, they are calling.
from across the distance within.

can you feel the cold
from the peaks?
the scent of wood and ale and food
that you feel within.

can you hear? the horns?
your tyrian friends, they call.

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