Of north what worth is found?
Nothing but dead silent streams of lonely lanes
Enchanted only the water which climbs from and to
The mountains await the wanderer , done

Dying from a sordid company
The bloody-ornate eagle brags
Who now shall flutter freely
In a heaven away from the fiery white paths

Forlorn and stillborn
A caribou is born
Hath not the mother a kinder hand
For such a land begs for a merciful command

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