suttonnick Gleision
Tops of trees, their roots in seams
Of dark. King under mountain.
The cave's an open mouth whose words
Are men who work their mountain.
Pine, larch and oak. Don't touch the bell
That tolls from out the mountain
Or he will stir, and miners die
Like light inside a mountain.
His breath is black and marks each face
That seeks beneath the mountain.
Leaves drift down, but they won't heal
The sentence of the mountain.
It's time to lose all hope and seal
The grave. King lies in his mountain.
