We carry our burden through the gray dusk.  Dew wet hills that should be gold beat out our slow march.  Morning life begins to rise as we pass through this wretched night.  The sounds of the wakening lands strike harsh.  We have carried far this long sun-sleep.  Forsaking our mounts for duty, the beasts shuffle behind in stuttering confusion.  We carry our burden home.

With hands and heads we lift our charge with care.  As a carrier in the march grows tired another takes his place, no word shared.  We hold it high never to stoop below our foreheads.  Carry high, brothers.  We have failed; let us not fail this.

Some never pass their duty.  They know no other way.  But to push through cold, blood, tears.  Not letting their body betray them once again.  Oh blood, wash us.

And hark, high walls: we come in sight of rest at last.  Yet this sight breaks our hearts complete.  Upon the wood and stony walls stand the gathered throng.  True-home is lined upon the watch in wait.  Our news rode before us.  They have come to lift too our burden.

Upon the foremost height stands our noble lady, first before her people.  She a gray flag to the wind, she clutches her lord's crown in his leave.  To await his return and sit golden band once more upon his brow.  She alone is alone.  Tall and erect she does not falter.

As to gate we draw, a song breaks out.  A hymn.  Soft and stuttered by raw care, carried by few and then the mass, comes our song of welcome.  As sun splits distant hills, our lord's outheld crown in lady hand does flicker.

We bring our king home.

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