The River of Dead Gods

Back when I was ten, near the longship wharf, I watched the old man And the god he carved. Not with a tool and skill. He said, "Gods are made, Wind is their will. We are trees that sway." I still see the god's eyes Under the wrinkled hand, Focused on the sky, Visioning the end. Down the river gray, they float Away. Silent silhouettes as the Sky turns red. River flows into night they leave Behind. Shrines of oak and thence for the Twilight realms. All splintered and riven, the gods that We believed in, cut like logs. Flames beneath the obscure sky, And the slain gods float by. Drifting into the dark, indifferent, And sullen. Into The night and beyond, the gods are Gone. All the gods are gone, And the river rolls on. Dispersed in the dark wide, they lead us Into the fight, one last time. Flames beneath the obscure sky, And the slain gods float by. Drifting into the dark, indifferent, And sullen. Questioning the crimson dusk, only One last thing I'll ask. Will they wait for me in the hall of The fallen? Flames beneath the obscure sky, And the slain gods float by. Drifting into the dark, indifferent, And sullen. Flames beneath the obscure sky, And the slain gods float by. Drifting into the dark, indifferent, And sullen. Questioning the crimson dusk, only One last thing I'll ask. Will they wait for me in the hall of The fallen?