Up on the mountain
where the men dare not go,
the angels set guards there
in the ice and the snow.
The guards they are women,
with blades out of steel,
and their hearts they are colder
than any ice you can feel.
Up on the mountain
where the trees do not grow,
the sun seldom shines
nor the rivers do flow.
From out of the Westhorns,
guards march from the stone.
Their blades are the fires,
that slice to the bone.
They'll cut you and leave you
all bleeding and cold,
and no one will find you,
till the mountains grow old.
The rocks they will splinter,
and the snows will fall deep,
and the guards of the mountains
will hold to their keep.
Their castle will stand, dear,
till the whole world is white,
till the Legend's forgotten,
with the demons of light.
Till my songs have been buried
in the depths of the nights,
and all the young men shun
the mountain's chill heights.
Up on the mountain
where the men dare noot go,
the angels set guards there
in the ice and the snow.
And there they will stay, dear,
till the whole world is white,
till the Legend's forgotten,
with the demons of light.
Till my songs have been buried
in the depths of the night,
and none of the young men
seek out that cold height;
and none of the young men
seek out that cold height.
(The Towers of the Sunset, 325-327)
(The Towers of the Sunset, 339-340)[fragment]
