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Morning SongOh no, now here; the day doth comeTo me, just me, her only oneHail to the Day, a voice dares sayOh go, just go, aloud I prayCome now, wake now, pull up from your bedThe voice rails on, and it fills my headAlas my friend now you must awakeAlas my friend, for it's all at stakeAway, I cry with utmost fervourI can't and I won't, not by my honourNot now and not then, there's work to be doneI cringe and I thrash but there's nowhere to runO' taxes, o' wages, these things you must payWant work and wont waste as to blend all each dayFor now I awake, as I begin my mourningAnd so it goes, it must each morningI rise and I shine with my own desirous rageFor now I creep onto my own little stageNow I'll dance and I'll laugh and I'll tarryAll to keep lordly taskmaster merryIt is what it is, they tell me nowAnd silence is my answer when then I ask howThe way of the world is my answer they sayAnd why is my question, oh now and each dayIt is what it is and nothing ever changesSo
East and NorthTwo travelers sat together on a bench as they were ferried across the wide mouth of the river towards their individual destinations. Occasionally the ferryman glanced back at the two travelers in silent contemplation, other times the ferryman looked back at the two travelers in silent humor, other times still the ferryman would look back at the two travelers and say nothing at all, think nothing and pass no judgment. No matter how the ferryman looked, he kept his silence, for under the cover of the ages, the ferryman had learned that silence was the observer's best friend.On right side of the bench there sat a man of fair complexion. With skin as white as the driven snow and long flaxen locks hat fell over his face and beard, the pale man sat quietly but readily, his arms were bare, the Runic inscriptions in his flesh were free for all to see and interpret as they chose. His torso was covered by a shirt of ancient design, he wore ancient pants but travelled with fur-covered boots and