The wind did wail through the pines
Upon sylphen tongues rode thunderous 'foretellings
Crisp as the autumn air the words float upon
Softer than a mother's love

And the wind did speak
Weaving omens and prophecies
Lightning in poetic shape
I will never forget my lovely little fortune

The howl spoke and roared
A dialect only for my ready ears
Booming in an undertone,
"Son, Follow the rhythm of your war drum!"

These worn robes did fall
This auburn hair grows back
With a reminder around my wrist I march on
Onwards back home
Compass like heart guide me

Guide me back home