Somewhere, in the celtic hills of Wales a wolf howls in the
soul of a miner, down in his heart a fire burns and in his ears
the crash of iron and the yells of fighting echo. Down in the
depths of the forest his legs walk, in the skies his God flys and
in the sea his enemies wait.
Down in the valley as the dawn breaks, you can hear the
march of boots as the men wake.
Fragments by Boz