A fantasy poem written for the Winter's Fantasy Contest |
This is the poem of the Feast of the Goddess of Winter, Frejamorn. It is oft sang by the peasant folk during the celebration which starts at sundown of the last day of Goodseason and concludes at sunrise the next day. The Feast of Frejamorn is the last opportunity the peasants have to rejoice in the fortune that Goodseason always brings. It is also the last time the peasants will be merry for a long time, for the winter is harsh, food is scarce and the storms rage fiercely. The stars have told our Starmen And they in turn told us Goodseason shall be over We’ll mourn the grass and clover The hare and bear and gopher Shall sleep, for Freja’ comes And She shall bringeth winter The priests have all proclaimed There is no worth in praying Nor sacrifice nor slaying Of lamb or ham or slaveling For blood she doth not crave Prepare ye selves and listen ‘cause soon the goddess comes And She’ll, with pow’r She wields Lay waste to farm and field But bone and stone to yield And little of all else Five moons the winter lasteth With snow and sleet and ice While freezing are we peasants Fat Lords are warm and pleasant They wine and dine on pheasant And we break frozen bread But … The time is drawing nearer Though nigh it is not yet For now we shall be merry And dance like elf and faery Hear me and be not wary If just for this one night The Feast of Frejamorn She comes for us at dawn Betwixt the set and rise of Sol We’ll dance to Summer’s Song And eat and drink till our bellies are full For by ‘morrow we may be gone By ‘morrow we may be gone |