By the broken hands which turn,
—Can I tell you? Can you learn?—
by this sacred grove of trees—
in this light cast by their leaves,
in this mountain's shadow cold,
in this moment growing old,
there's an ancient battle cry,
words so poignant one might die—
hear its shout within your soul—
let it feed you, make you full—
take it in and let it out!
Thus in need you'll know the shout:
Break the chains and be set free;
to man I'll never bend the knee.
Poem: Battle Cry
Tale Told 