Soft is the breeze that carries thee,
Soft the perfumed breeze that strokes your back,
But hard is the wind that buries thee
And hard the bed of stone that takes you back.
Kind are the words that comfort thee,
Kind the tender hands that stroke your back,
But cruel are the words that harry thee
And cruel the miles beneath the endless track.
Your plodding feet that never find their way
Are millstones for the hardened heart that sings.
The never ending road of nightened day
Is the only home the Brides Of Fate will bring.
Such is the warriors’s way, the warrior’s song.
The structure of its refrain that now emerges
Calls out a song of never ending wrong,
A mad regale, this warrior’s lonely chorus:
That sings, that brings, that rings:
The softest breeze that carries thee,
The softest perfumed breeze that strokes your back,
The hardest wind that buries thee
And the hardest bed of stone that takes you back.
