BOOK III
AND ALL THE SHORES BETWEEN

He stands watching the Chosen on the wall

Gripping the stone in both hands

Staring down into the blur of sickle blades,

Clouds of spray and snow blow behind

And all to the horizon, to the curve

Of wall that marks the shore,

Nothing but men swinging.

When the sea fills the gap

His cousins raise their spears.

For twelve hours the sun strives

And the reaper reaps.

The boy stares down into that sweep

Of hot oiled blade and tempered ice,

And I hope he will not fall.

Epic lay, The Wall, Derak Ranathaj


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