From the sky, they did soar,
in swan-shirts clad, fates to weave
out to the lake, three sons came
to take them home, wives to be

Summers went, winters came,
for Wayland’s wife, filled with grief,
one fine day, she took flight,
the royal son left in woe

To mourn, bereft of kin and of joy,
yet anvil and steel remain
magic craft, divine flames

At his forge, Wayland stood,
crafting gold - destiny

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