The scouring

Fly for me Hugin, fly for me Munin. Tell me what you behold.
Bring to me news of life and death from the cold, western unknown.

We've scoured this land, to find the place of rest.
Mourning for the loss, to the stars I do digress.

To exorcise this pain of sorrow, in the land I trust.
To remove the fear of the unknown, in the land I trust.

Ride on a firm westward wind, to this jagged island's spine
Where the treacherous rocks lie in a mocking salute, to the souls they condemn to the hunt.

Circle the mountains, scour the land, let not a stone lay unturned.
Heralds of woe are still better than none, for uncertainty pulls my heart low.

I mourn the loss if those who have been taken by the land:
we take the herald from Woden, to guide these souls to rest.