by Richard F. Searight
The North Wind blares, a gelid, lee-born roar,
Down from the arctic wastes where sit the ghosts
Of one-eyed Odin, bloody-handed Thor,
In frost-bound silence with their warrior hosts.
The East Wind murmurs softly through the night
Of dank and noisome things, and evil lore
Old in the days when Atlar rose to might.
And Chaldic magic ruled a world of gore.
The South Wind breathes a pestilential dirge.
It whispers of corruption and the tomb;
Of life in death, and mankind's biting urge
To gain the secrets hidden in Time's womb.
The West Wind keens a warning cry of hate,
As, from the boundless voids of sea and sky,
It sweeps upon a race bowed low by fate,
Yet striving still to gain the heights or die.