There are no half measures
There is no compassion
There’s no respite
This is its Power.
The roofs rattling
The windows shattering (each pane in pain)
Streaming, flying and
This mild and meek land is not used to such ferocity
It trembles and submits to the will of such might
Boughs bend like reverent knees
before merciless masters
This Power is foreign
A far off and angry god stranded in our faithless land
Iya, perhaps, come roaring from the north
Aeolus, revived from ancient slumber to seek richer pastures
or Juracán, wreaking havoc on behalf of his goddess
Polite and timid, we cannot comprehend these gods
Perhaps without belief, they’ll fade…
The winds howl ever louder.
They will not leave so easily.