p.s. your mother's a warrior

Your mother's a warrior, sons
wearing weapons of steel.
She wields a sword as she carries you, child,
into a far off world.
Her breath is like snow, her touch unreal,
her voice can cut you in two;
but the flame of her love consumes her
and the course of her heart beats true.

    (tremble and quake
    split and break
    the rocks that clutter the earth)

Your mother's a warrior, sons.
She rides the cold north wind.
She is wounded by passion
and healed by love.
Her feet touch the ground,
her eyes look above.
Though tattered and torn
from the pain she has borne
she's ready again to begin.

Listen, Sons of Thunder,
as she sings you lullabies.
Here come her prayers for you
flashing across the skies,
and raindrops count the rhythm
of the tears falling from her eyes
since she bent the bow
and let you go
to find where tomorrow lies.