Mutter softly to the den

In which our story may begin

Dusk to dawn, she sits and waits

Never questioning their fates

In beds they slumber all alone

Goodnight, she whispers from the throne

Her hands are too tired to fight

Thus she’s up to weave another night

Just before Apollo’s chariot flies

Apprehension dawns in her yellowed eyes

Silent is her worried heart

Mingled in fear, though joy in part

In the crepuscular hour she is born

New wyrd blooms for this Norn

Every daybreak, she whines and withers

So at sunset, she blinds with “come hithers”


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