The blood-stone weeps for its long lost selves
Pulled forth from snowy thoughts,
Over far off hills and across forgotten seas
It lies ready and waiting for eager choosing
It sits with its crown, the queen of tiny sky-reachers,
While its fertile tears fall on fertile land.
Mother, weeper, condemner of Spring
A tool of war, far flung in its imagery.
Long known to earth-walkers, sustenance to mortality,
As life dwells within it.
Author notes
For my English class, we had to make old-english style riddles with kennings and stuff. Here's mine. See if you can figure it out!
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