An ill, deluded heathen doll
spoke once with the Harbingers:
‘How can you have the savage gall
of claiming justice to be yours?’

‘Blind doll,’ the Harbingers replied,
‘Hearken now Glomdoring’s call!’
And then, with keening voice they cried
A haunting and compelling song:

‘Our web is steely cold and dark
and strong as oakvine’s will;
ensnaring claws, a cruel arc
of ecstasy before the kill.

‘As one we hunt, as one we sing
as one we spread the Wyrd.
The Brother takes beneath His wing
the thirstiest among His herd.

‘The Night’s cool blanket ever shines
with darkness deep and bright;
the black-borne patterns intertwine
the spider’s web curls tight…

‘A starved deer’s stumbling hoofbeats drum
to the beetles’ clicking jaws
and merge with steady bloodbeat’s hum
with a harpy’s twisted caws!

‘Why would you go the straighter path
with light to guide your way;
no grief to tempt a mourner’s wrath,
a beacon so you cannot stray –

‘A choking brilliance ‘round your throat
that bitter, one-eyed glare!
I prefer my Mother’s cloak;
my Brother’s strength beware!’

The awed heathen then and there
renounced her false idolatry
she wept and knelt, at once ensnared,
Mahalla’s faithful devotee.