Poetry, thats what this blog is about.

sábado, 18 de setembro de 2010

Child of Loki, giant's spawn,

Odin's doom in wolfish form.

Evil-born or betrayal turned?

By the Gods and people spurned.

When you were a young pup, they knew,

what it was you could turn into,

so they chose to bind you fast,

though they knew it could not last.

They told you it was just a game,

something to test and prove your name,

they'd tie you up in every fetter,

but none could hold you any better,

Like silken threads you snapped each one,

steel and stone were soon undone,

finally they brought a ribbon, thin,

yet some dwarfish magic sparked deep within.

Your suspicion roused, you tried to refuse,

they taunted you, "Afraid you'll lose?"

Angry, yet sly, you agreed, one condition,

before you'd at last give your permission.

One of the gods, to prove it’s just fun,

must place in your jaws, from wrist to thumb,

just one single hand, to prove it’s a jest,

before you'll fulfil this final test.

Without hesitation, Tyr volunteered,

the God of War seemed not a'feared,

They bound you up, you struggled and fought,

but all your efforts came to naught.

The Gods, they smiled, and then you knew,

they'd done what they had meant to do,

Fenrir was no longer free!

You'd not threaten their tyranny.

A flash of fury, with a vengeful bite,

you severed Tyr's hand, as was your right.

Those traitors would pay for your fate,

but for now Fenrir must wait.

Oh Fenrir, Canine King of Old.

Locked away in their stronghold.

Till Ragnarok, you must stay bound,

innocent pup turned hellish hound.

When the world reaches its end,

your chains will break, you may ascend,

The King of God's you shall consume,

and by his son you'll meet your doom.

Till you meet your fate, sleep Fenrir, sleep.

Alone, where none can see you weep.

sábado, 4 de setembro de 2010

"The Last House..."

The last house of this village stands

as alone as if it were the last house in the world.

The road, that the little village cannot hold,

moves on slowly out into the night.

The little village is but a place of transition,

expectant and afraid, between two vast distances,

a passageway along houses instead of a bridge.

And those who leave the village may wander

a long time, and many may die perhaps

along the way.