[Orcish Verse] A Lok'marosh for Orgrimmar

[Garulfkar]

A Lok'marosh for Orgrimmar
(A traditional Orcish song about a city, stronghold, village, etc. For the pride Orgrimmar once held, and may yet hold again for the peoples of the Horde.)
(Adapted from the poet Carl Sandburg's work about Chicago)

Boar butcher,   
Maker of armaments,
Carver of stone,   
Singer of Lok'tras and the desert's hard seeds;   

Stormy, husky, brawling,   
Stronghold of earth-blood
and wind-carved canyons.

Your enemies claim you are wicked and I believe them,
for I have seen your warriors with blades painted red,
under the grim shadows of the ravines,
luring the gruntlings with the silent tales of their scars.

They say that you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true.
I have seen the Hands of the Cleft kill and go free to kill again,
in bleak alleys where the canyons grind
and the dry winds howl with the song of the pack.   

They say that you are brutal and my reply is:
On the faces of your women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.
On the faces of your peons and Shamans I have seen the eyes of starved wolves.
And upon their visages all I have seen inscribed
the same desert pride,
Stones windblown but deathly defiant.   
Hearts of molten ore ever forging.

And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my home,
and I give them back the sneer and say to them:
   
Come.

Come and show me another city with lifted head roaring,
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.   
Hark to another city with canyons who thunder
with the adamant echoes of living lok'tras.
Gaze upon another fortress born of mightstone,
hewn by ragged limbs gasping
with a homeless despair
that will never be voiced
from these proud, tacit maws.
Show me another hold
whose unyielding marrow 
is the grim armory of the Lohn'goron.
Show me another fortress
whose threshold veins are transgressed only
by those storm-stricken with awe.
Show me another city whose very name is a lok'vadnod,
whose very spirit is fused
with such immortal flow,
in the ever-becoming lifeblood
of fathomless forebears.
Where even the gold handlers,
whose blood dampened Hyjal,
fling their earthquaking curses amidst the ceaseless toil
of iron spines and wyvern wings.
Here, myths are alive.
Here, the storm waves crash in vain against the eastern walls of earth.
Here, the scorn of the strong dares invaders to come.
Here, no wayfarers may enter
without the very soul of this fury-scarred city penetrating their hearts.
Here is a rocky bold wolf den set stark against the soft cities of the four winds;   
Fierce as a Raider with tongue lapping for action,
Cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,   
Bareheaded,   
Shoveling,   
Wrecking,   
Planning,   
Building, breaking, rebuilding,   
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth,
laughing with white fangs, long tusks, and horns.   
Under the terrible burden of destiny
laughing as a young Orc laughs at death,   
Laughing even as an ignorant warrior laughs who has never lost a battle,

Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse. and under his canyon ribs the heart of the people,   
Laughing!   
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of vigor and valor,
half-naked, sweating, proud to be
Boar Butcher,
Maker of armaments,
Carver of stone,   
Life-bound to Lok'tra and the desert's hard seeds.