﻿[Intro]
(One harp string plays a slow three-note waltz while tagelharpa sustains beneath it.)

[Verse 1]
Runa carved horses along the harp frame,
One for our winter, one bearing my name.
She tuned every string by the pull of the rain,
Then laughed when the roof gave the same note again.
Our son slept beside us with soot on his cheek,
Too young for the glory old war-singers speak.
The kettle breathed juniper, barley and pine—
A poor little kingdom, but willingly mine.

[Chorus]
The broken harp of Runa still knows where home had been,
It keeps her thumb upon the wood, her breath between the strings.
“Doo LEH-ver ee TOH-nen som AL-dree dor,” I sing into the grain—
You live in the note that does not die, though I cannot come again.
The broken harp of Runa holds what winter could not take:
A roof, a hand, a sleeping child, the sound two people make.

[Verse 2]
Then fever came early and stayed past the thaw,
It thinned Runa’s fingers and tightened her jaw.
She broke the lowest harp string to bind round my wrist,
[Runa - Female Voice]
And said, “Do not trade me for glory or mist.”
[Skald - Lead Vocal]
Years later our Arvid marched north with the king,
With red wool on ashwood and frost on the string.
His sword was returned, but no body, no shield—
Only mud in the scabbard from some nameless field.

[Chorus]
The broken harp of Runa still knows where home had been,
It keeps her thumb upon the wood, her breath between the strings.
“Doo LEH-ver ee TOH-nen som AL-dree dor,” I sing into the grain—
You live in the note that does not die, though I cannot come again.
The broken harp of Runa holds what winter could not take:
A roof, a hand, a sleeping child, the sound two people make.

[Instrumental Break]
(Harp and tagelharpa play Runa’s melody without drums; a second voice hums the final phrase.)

[Bridge]
I carried Arvid’s weapon but never drew the blade,
For steel had done enough to the house that Runa made.
No well could take that memory, no Norn could cut it through—
My son died in the story that men like me made true.

[Breakdown]
No god took him gently.
No Valkyrie came.
A levy took his shoulder;
A singer gave it fame.

[Final Chorus]
The broken harp of Runa now knows what I must do,
It keeps her hand against my hand and makes the old note new.
“Doo LEH-ver ee TOH-nen som AL-dree dor,” let root and rib reply—
You live in the note that does not die when halls and heavens lie.
The broken harp of Runa will sound though strings must break,
For memory is not worship, and grief is not a chain.

[Outro]
Runa closed the doorway.
Arvid crossed the snow.
The harp retained one heartbeat—
And would not let it go.
