I sing of the tales of The Wanderer The rider of Yggdrasill He gave up an eye into Mimir’s Well Where deeply, he drank his fill. For nine long nights, Old Hárr, hung he In search of the spoken spell; The Runes that he found drew sounds for man And down, from The Tree, he fell. A snake, he slid through Gunnloð’s court; The Mead of Poetry sought; Three sips, and he fled as eagle’s wing; By Suttung, was never caught. Two sticks on a beach Hárbarð had found; His brothers heard his call; He gave his own breath and his blood to the wood And told them of his hall: “Valhalla holds the Einherjar “Who’ll fight on Vigrið plain.” As Fenrir sinks his fangs to the bone The life of Odin will wane. Fear not, my kin, of the Ragnarók, For Fimbultýr truly has won; He saw his own death at the end of time And whispered this to his son.
Posted on: Wed, 19 Nov 2014 07:32:32 +0000
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