The Edge Of the Earth

Ever the winds go blowing, blowing,
Over the Desert Dunes,
Over the land of a thousand suns;
The land of a thousand moons

Ever the land shifts and groans,
Sandy moor upon sandy moor,
Parched oceans stretching wide
To beat upon mountain’s shore.

And ever the winds go blowing, blowing,
Over this sand filled sea,
This desert that is all there has ever been,
And all there will ever be.

And ever the wind goes blowing, blowing,
Ever the wind, she blows.
And as for the secrets she whispers at night,
Only the desert knows.

And as for the secrets she whispers at night,
Only the desert knows,
And as for the things that she has seen,
Only the desert knows.

Yet for any who have the patience,
To wait upon the dune,
Come this lady may, in deepest night,
To sing to you beneath the moon.

For ever the wind goes blowing, blowing,
And many a thing she’s seen,
And many a tale she knows of this world,
And much of what has once been.

So if you sit and pay heed, hear and listen well,
She’ll sing to you a tale
Of two great lovers long passed away,
Of Edmund and Elandale.

And the wind goes blowing, blowing, blowing,
As ever it has done.
Her memory going back to different days,
Under a younger sun.

And the sands of time will begin to shift,
The years will fall away,
And all who sit will be taken back,
Into a long dead day.

The wind goes blowing, blowing, blowing,
Across the sandy sea,
And all who sit are taken back,
To witness history.

The tale begins with brave Edmund
Foreign to desert land
Unused to the cruel heat of the sun,
And the coarseness of the sand.

From distant lands he’s come here,
To this, the edge of the earth
Come in the service of king and crown,
To this land devoid of all mirth.

He’s come to fight the desert men,
Warriors of great renown.
Come to war with them if he may,
To cut or be cut down.

A young man of great repute,
Is this Edmund child;
Strong and brave, kind and keen,
Courageous and wild.

Blond of hair, with skin so fair,
Burned red under desert sun,
Like a wild demon he could fight
And like an antelope run.

To this, the distant edge of the earth,
He’s come to win his name;
To brave the desert’s numerous perils,
For the sake of rank and fame.

And the wind goes ever blowing, blowing,
And howling calls his name,
Over the dunes, dancing, dancing, dancing,
Drawing him into her game.

And the desert sands shift and groan,
Baked beneath the sun,
Here at this old earth’s very edge,
Where ghosts of old still run.

One day as Edmund rode out under sun,
With his brave band,
Dressed in smart brown uniforms,
Riding over the land.

He chanced to see on distant dune,
A mare with golden hair,
And betting his lads he’d have her,
He hastened on without a care.

Well the wind goes ever blowing, blowing,
Over many a sandy dune,
And many a secret she’s sought out, brought out,
From the depths of sandy cocoon.

Riding over the desert, Edmund soon would find,
That clever were the desert population,
Far more shrewd and swift, and daring brave,
Than spoken of by distant nation.

Far and away this mare led him, on a merry chase,
Over the sandy waves,
Over the ever moving desert hills,
And ancient forgotten graves.

So the wind goes blowing, ever blowing on,
Ever blowing, ever blowing on,
Across the plains of the world’s bitter end,
Before the sunset and passed the dawn.

Then the chase at long last is ended,
The mare she disappears,
And left alone in the depth of desert lands,
Edmund confronts his fears.

Then in the manner of ghosts they come,
These wily desert men,
Rising from the tawny desert sands,
From secret, hand dug den.

Four there are who face brave Edmund,
Golden swords in bronze hands,
Eyes alight with malice and deep hatred,
To defend their imperiled land.

Now, how long they may have battled,
Not even the wind can say,
For Edmund was strong and brave,
And his opponents fey.

Then at last they fell to the heated sand,
Their blood turning red the gold,
These desert warriors falling in defeat,
Before Edmund the bold.

Oh, but standing he pants so heavily,
And though his battle’s done,
His horse his fled, his wounds have bled,
And he is alone beneath the sun.

Then the wind goes blowing, blowing,
Oh this wind of fate!
Carrying the sands into the blue sky,
Into a storm that would not abate.

Then the wind she howled like a demon.
And the sands cut like glass,
Driving Edmund’s companions from their search,
Sealing what must come to pass.

The wind goes blowing, blowing, blowing,
Whipping the desert into chaos,
The howling storm at the Edge of the Earth
Moaning of pain and loss.

And back to their fort men flee, fast as fast can be,
Leaving Edmund to his Destiny,
To the cruel oceans of sand, everlasting dunes,
And to all that must come to be.

The wind, she goes blowing, blowing ever on,
Dancing across the sandy waves,
Her sandy skirt wildly whipping to and fro,
Opening long sealed graves.

And cowering in fear, Edmund lies down prone,
Wrapped in the cloak of slain enemy,
Clutching to him golden sword of overthrown,
Struggling against the sandy sea.

Then at long last the storm she fades away,
Giving back darkness to light,
And once again the desert becomes calm,
And once more, the sun shines bright.

Then the wind goes blowing, blowing,
Blowing across empty moor,
And all is silence and emptiness, and quiet,
The desert forevermore.

Then with a gasp and a cry, Edmund rises,
Bursting from sandy sea,
Clutching fast in his hand, golden sword,
And wrapped in the garb of the enemy.

Now the winds of fate go blowing again,
And comes Elandale,
Urged across the desert’s shifting sands,
Drawn by Edmund’s wail.

Riding a golden mare, she comes to him,
Long hair as black as raven,
Skin as dark as olive, shining bronze,
This fair daughter of sheik Mayven.

Hearing her approach, Edmund dives for cover,
Then sighting just one fair maid,
Leaps up again before her golden horse,
Brandishing golden blade.

The mare she startles and rears, screaming fear,
But to her still the maiden clings,
Clutching her sides with her strong thighs,
And hands devoid of rings.

“Fair maiden I’ve no wish to harm thee!”
Edmund speaks to she,
“But maiden it is your mount I’ll need,
and so I cannot flee.”

“Well foreign man, you may not have her,”
speaks the maiden without fear,
“For she is mine and I love her well,
Nor am I all I appear.”

“Maiden you toy with me,” Edmund speaks,
“Now swiftly be down,
For I am a warrior to the end, born and bread,
And well trained by the crown.”

And lifting his gold sword he threatened her,
Spinning it with light hand,
“I have already slain four of the warriors,” says he,
“That come from your dry land.”

Well if the maiden feared, she did not show it,
But rather, boldly grinned.
And Drawing forth a silver bow and arrow,
Readied them, swift as the wind.

“You may sir,” she said, “Have slain my husband,”
“But you will not slay me.
And sir if you don’t drop your fancy sword,
I’ll set this arrow free.”

Then Edmund was baffled by this cruel little maid,
Who shed not a tear for the dead,
Who sat as boldly as a man upon her golden mare,
While he himself stood and bled.

Then at last, fearing the release of silver shafted arrow,
He let fall the blade he held,
And weakening fell once again to his knees,
The great warrior, by a woman, felled.

“And now brave slayer of my husband,” spoke she again,
“You will come with me.
Back to the tent of my great father, the sheik,
To face his will and decree.”

Then the wind she went on blowing, blowing,
And the sands shift and change,
While these two lovers, destined by fate to be,
Play out what the fates arrange.

Their fates were great and well renowned,
And of them, many tales are spoken,
And many a journey did they embark upon
And ever was their love unbroken.

But as it must, the night draws to a close,
And the wind must cease her tale,
And as the golden sun peaks over the horizon
Her voice begins to fail.

Then she is whisked away, upon a new adventure,
And Here at the Edge of the earth,
We are left to sit alone, and can only wonder;
Did their tale end in sorrow or mirth?

Did they die loving one another, aged and old,
Or did they die young?
What became of these two warriors, so bold?
But now their tale is sung.

And the wind blows ever on and on, blows forevermore,
And many tales she’s seen,
And there is many a story she has to tell,
Of all that has once been.

Yes many a story there is to hear, though bitterly sold,
For they are only whispered to the bold.
But for now the wind moves on, for now the story is told,
And spent are silver arrows, and sheathed are swords of gold.