Laga, Ragalor — Her Hands Were Home

Mmm… Morning Has Not Touched The Glass
Sleep, Little One
The Fire Is Low
My Hands Are Awake
Before The Dawn Had Silvered Up The Pane
Her Hands Awakened While The House Slept On
They Pressed The Morning Bread
Beneath Their Palms
They Drew A Needle Through A Cloak’s Torn Seam
They Cooled The Fever Burning On My Brow