Through our land, the forest knew
what we were, and were about.
We travelled unmolested,
our own personal redoubt.
The hunting there was easy.
The game was all about,
and the forest seemed to mourn us
as we made our way back out.

To the north of the forest
lay the plains and river mouth,
where the marsh filled the lands,
thawing miles south.
To the east, lay our mine.
The Queen hid thereabout.

Steeling my resolve,
I challenged nature with a shout:
"Throw what you will at me,
you will not block my path,
for it is love that guides me,
I can survive your cruelest wrath,
but take pity on my men!
They don't deserve to hear the laugh
of fickle nature's whim,
as they breathe their dying last.
Let us through the land we're in!
We only beg you let us pass!"

I held a coin up to the wind,
And let it fall into the grass.
The men all did the same;
tradition from ages passed
still echoed to this day,
the sentiment unsurpassed.

We mounted and rode away
through a prairie of spun glass.
The ice-coated wheat,
lit by the sun, like polished brass,
made us bringers of destruction:
the shattered trails of our trespass
were evidence of our intrusion,
in scattered gold aftermath.