To Uraz the bull rune, with my thanks for this day.
Leaves show their edges when they fall,
Serrated sides cut-at speed or crawl.
When it’s time, trunks shed their weight.
To hold on past use is keeping too late.
With horns, with strength, with will,
Uraz the bull cuts out the too still.
So many things drag-on every plane,
A fierce charge is needed to push us to gain.
To sever with skill and make the cleave clean,
Ride the bull through-the other side is green.