From graves of ice, the Others rise,
With hearts cold as the dead,
And death writ true, within the eyes,
In place of tears, is shed.
The Others come to play and dance,
A deathly waltz thought lost,
And merciless, as pointed lance,
Strike hard, like winter’s frost.
While lords of land in Southern seats,
Fight for an iron throne,
Far north, that cold, evil heart beats,
A death march all its own.
The Gods of Death, with their dead horde,
Come south to play their game.
With deathly pawns upon the board,
Drive forth, in Terror’s name.
Upon the wall, still brave men stand,
Bound only by their words,
And fear, akin to when wolves land,
To feast upon caged birds.
Yet these birds have their talons still,
Though few and far between,
And though hard pressed, live on to kill,
The nightmares they have seen.
For night comes quickly, and soon falls,
And with it, trust in hope,
As vows are lost, when duty calls,
Frail as ancient rope.
For ice blue eyes may kill a man,
Before a sword is drawn.
Sweet will to live, more fatal than,
A poisoned roses thorn.
As Winter comes, and thick snow lands,
The wall rises in height,
Though at the gate, with blackened hands,
Death knocks, dressed all in white.
The gate will shake, as cold winds bite,
And all light fades to black,
And with it, hope dies in the night,
As Death makes his attack.
The realms of myth and truth have met,
Tall tales now come to life,
The God of Death, his dead horde set,
To cut, to carve, a knife
Of cruel steel, forged in fires of ice,
To feed on cries of pain.
When all men fall, within their vice,
The long night comes again.
Deep snow falls, where once fruit trees grew,
And Winter was a lie,
Yet now all fades, for no one knew,
That even warmth can die.
No one is safe, when Winter comes,
His long reach cruel and true,
With ice cold breath, that tears and numbs,
The last breath out of you.
by All Men Must Rhyme