O, Fyr! Thee magnificent silver pine crowned!
Casting thine wan moonshadow on the ground.
Thine limbs are like needles from the starry sky,
for a tree being winterborn timber of dim sigh.
Standing guard at the edge of the Unknown,
among and before dancing lights that call forlorn.
From the void casted throne fare the thorny cone.
O! Fyr what I feel, alas, I pine for thine morn.