The Ghost of Hoarfell

Ahhh… ahhh… Where silver sleeps in frozen stone, Where no man truly stands alone, A silent watcher veils the land, No crown may claim, no king command. The wind recalls her hidden trail, A breath that lingers in Hoarfell, Not ghost, not queen, nor mortal name— But something older all the same. Soft as frost and pale as night, Never seen in full daylight— Even kings and horrors fail, Before the ghost of Hoarfell. She guards, she veils, she does not call— Yet still she stands above it all. Colier bows where none can see, No temple raised, no decree, The Fünfenlotaar softly speak, Of power no hand could ever seek. For every mine and every wall, Still stands because she spares them all, Not love, nor grace that men can claim— But balance none dare name. Soft as frost and pale as night, Never seen in full daylight— Even kings and horrors fail, Before the ghost of Hoarfell. No blade, no throne, no war to tell— Can cross the will of Hoarfell. Do not seek and do not stare, Do not breathe her in the air— No name, no vow, no mortal claim, Will leave untouched her hidden domain. She watches… always… The Gorgon halts at mountain’s breath, For even he remembers death, Not by sword nor fire nor spell— But what still walks in Hoarfell. Soft as frost and pale as night, Never seen in full daylight— Even kings and horrors fail, Before the ghost of Hoarfell. She guards, she veils, she holds the line— A silent will, a force divine— No voice, no throne, no tale to tell… Yet all endure… through Hoarfell.