Helblindi

I know you know who you think you are,
but what am I when you've gone too far?
I'm alone in the cold, the frost-bitten throat,
the dirt is heavy on a broken heart.

I want to believe you will come looking for me,
or call out my name in your sleep.
But sleep is a thief of things to be done,
for tomorrow comes, all under the Sun.

In the shade I will rest, the shadows embrace,
long did I run with the living things race.
But now I sleep in the cold hands of Hel,
for she rings for me the beautiful knells.

Pale is she, my goddess, my Hel,
Sing for me but never do tell.
Broken and hungry, these things I never know,
For these things are not for those who are below.

What am I now, but a fading memory?
After my children nobody will know me.
No one left to say my name, my name will also die,
For history remembers not those not written in the sky.

Valhol's doors, five-hundred and forty,
The mighty heroes who's names we all know.
Eight-hundred abreast, they marched for war,
lead by the One-eyed to destruction go.

Though the boot of the Son, of Herjan's blood,
held down the jowls of the swamp beasts jaw,
The Lord of Hosts' life was mixed in the mud,
and all that was heard was the raven's caw.

But no one remembers name of the dirt,
though mixed with the blood of the gods.
Who soaked up the essence of life in its girth,
but whose name is not written at all.

The daughter of Odin's brother by blood,
has taken me without condition.
Hunger and hopelessness no longer have a hold,
for what is comfort in the land of the cold.



Poetry by Bonehead83
Read 174 times
Written on 2022-08-21 at 20:07

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