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2019 Return of the Dead

 No more are there voices in the hall,
The lamps have all gone dry and dark;
The coals in the hearth grow colder still,
As all these spirits and souls embark.

The end of the season creeps through the grass,
Its dew is chilled with winter's breath.
Distant is the time to celebrate life,
And passed is the time to reflect upon death.

The year fades away, only a memory soon,
As we, for now, lay down our swords;
But our home is the trees, the lake, these walls,
The fort on the hill: Ravensborg.

Thank you all for a great event. See you next year. 


Nate Dunamai 

(Hrafnhár Skáldhjarta)

October 2019