On the dark wings of war he sweeps over the land,
Like a bit of cloth torn and tossed in the wind;
Grey as the gathering stormclouds of winter.
Stormcrow they call him, but with curled lip,
Giving no honor to his name in this place,
Seeing only the bearer of unwelcome ill-news.
They know not the cost of the paths he did choose.
He has traveled so far, in haste and grave danger
Seeking to aid them, to warn them in time.
Yet they hear only a pestilent doom-saying;
"Bad fortune follows where Stormcrow flies,
And battle nips close at those boot-clad heels,
A foul omen of war, this carrion-kind."
They push away the only help they will find.
Like wings, his grey cloak does sweep out behind;
Though weary, he urgently rides through the plains.
Beneath him his horse moves like one from a dream,
A song in white flowing over windswept green grasses,
He covers the leagues before enemy's legions,
No slackening of stride through valley nor ford
Til he paces persistently up to their doors.
Men shy away grumbling, defiant in their dread:
"Turn him away! Permit not his entrance;
Send the wanderer back to the fields alone.
We shun his dire words, like a fox among hens
His warning will prey on the peace of our people.
Send him out - for the storm is his chosen home."
But he would not yield, nor would he roam.
"A cursed jinx is he, bad fortune trails as his cloak,
Always his appearance means ill times approach.
Keep the Crow shut out, let this storm pass us by,
We want no part, let it follow him where it will,
Turn him away! All our gates are well-barred."
Guarded their greetings, all eyes hard and chill.
But strong indeed is his purpose and will!
Yes, where Stormcrow flies, war comes close behind.
And grievous the carrion birds surely to follow.
"If we can shut out this messenger of war,
Perhaps this homes will be spared this sorrow."
They turn their backs, deafen their ears in denial;
They try not to heed Stormcrow, Gandalf Greyhame -
But heed him or not, it will come just the same.