The shades of soot, in sight,
In eyes of close, or of foes,
Weaved words veiled or not,
To hide the truth but not.
Sway and sore the deep of much,
From thy words of verb of each,
And then thee fear the sense of pith,
Till the end, of the arc of sledge.
The shades of blue, insight,
In eyes of mine, and thee soul,
Weaved runes of my fair thoughts,
Of all good deed of the times.
Tale it and tell it, and stay it firm,
From all odds of the shades of soot,
Know thy words of all the troth,
To the long last of all shades.