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
They Brushed The Clinging Snow From Little Shoulders
When Night Made Every Shadow Feel Alive
Those Same Hands Held Me Till The Dark
Grew Small
We Thought The Hearth Was Why The Room Stayed Warm
We Were Too Young To Know Whose Warmth It Was
Mmm—Rest Your Head, The Dark Will Pass
Mmm—Winter Cannot Hold You Fast
Hands That Kneaded
Hands That Mended
Hands That Held Me Till Fear Had Ended
No Jeweled Flame
No Hall Of Gold
Could Give The Warmth
Those Fingers Held
Long After Every Coal
Had Fallen Dark
The Fire Warmed The Hall
Her Hands Warmed Every Heart