Hot Apollo

Toronto's Shiniest Rock-and-Roll Band

Beneath the Mountain

The winds that whipped our brows abate.

The chills that cracked our will subside.

No peril stole our promised fate.

Naught stands against the force of pride.


Our revel’s full return now rings.

It brings a song to ancient ears

And stirs the souls of sleeping kings

That lie beneath the weight of years.


They wake in grace to timeless strains

That play for all their slumber missed.

They join the joyous tune’s refrains

With lips that tender triumph kissed.


They cry for aeons held in shade

And ages that were spent to yearn.

For every dream that ever strayed,

Their regal voices freely burn.


Their hymn extends through lightened halls

To boast of newly bolstered fame.

The toast is borne beyond their walls

Across the lands that they reclaim.


Beneath the barrows, bellows rise

And ride above their mountain tomb.

A godly throne of solid guise

Now stands where sombre graves did loom.


The lay at last has found its place

To rule within this hilly fane.

Below the mound, in earth’s embrace,

It sounds the dawn of awesome reign.


Copyright © 2011, Jaymes Buckman and David Aaron Cohen. All rights reserved. In a good way.