Wealth is in the eye of the beholder
Those that hoard and those with greed
Sow discord like wheat, in equal,
And blown like chaff.
The cattle are driven across the river
The jealous wait to steal their share
Wealth is in the eye of the patient,
Though the patient are not always kind.
Charity begets a heart of gold
Wealth is in the eye of subjectivity,
For the wealth of goods does not always equal
The wealth of heart and home.
The aurochs drink from the waters of life
And we hunt the auroch to ensure our lives
Water and cow go hand in hand
Both come in rivers: one of clear, one of milk.
Between the horns of cattle,
I see the visage of Auðumbla
Four rivers of power flow in four directions
I drink, and regain my strength.
Rain is falling again,
Turning from sleet and hail to hail and snow;
It always returns as a rain,
And with it comes the riding of Þórr.
I dare to walk through the Ironwood
The giantesses and wolves hiding left and right
Though they do not appear, I still feel their presence
And the undying powers of old.
The ancient brambles snake around my heels
Here sleeps the jǫtunn, the troll and a great dragon
I cut away the thorns with a swipe of my blade
Yet they pierce me deep, through courage and through heart.
I stand before a raging giant
I am to slay him to conquer these wilds
Yet some things cannot, are best not untamed
And I am bested by the heart of this wilderness.
The gods are many, the gods are fickle
But capricious as they are, they are also kind;
Fortune is bestowed upon those at whom they smile
And those they smite, will learn to gain favour.
There are many trees that lord over the wood —
From ash comes the Mead,
From oak the blessing of the Giant-Slayer,
And many other gifts of the divine.
Gain is not without sacrifice
And to that, the gods do see;
The valkyrja waits upon her battle-wolf,
And perhaps the gods choose you.
From battle the warriors swiftly ride home
Exhausted and pained, victorious or lost;
Wives do wait, generously weeping
For the journey of a coffin or a raven-feeding man.
The horse toils beneath wagon or saddle
The path is long, much travelling ahead
As the wanderer approaches the glowing horizon,
So too does the rise and set of the sun.
High roads and low roads,
So many to choose from;
Each with its own destination
And perhaps, a better answer.
Torch or ulcer?
It doesn't matter,
For though one is light, the other pain
Both will burn with growing intensity.
The darkness lit again by fire's glow,
Perched upon a stick like a hawk;
It lights the kindling of the campfire
And keeps the foul beasts away.
The stomach rolls with lancing hurt
A part of it dying, worn away by time
Reduced to one's knees when there's too much to bear
It is the bane of both kings and common men.
Whether gift of life
Or gift of plenty,
The best gift of all
Is the one never asked for.
Giving and receiving
Is like the passage of time:
Push and pull, push and pull,
With the addition or subtraction of a few.
A warrior gives his wife a blade for her protection
A farmer gives his bride a goat for wool and milk
I give you a spear to raise in the gods' name
And gift the foe with a wound to the gut.
There is joy in every aspect of life:
The birth of a new child,
The success of a new venture
And the returning of old friends once more.
Happiness is the medicine to all tears,
For when the heart no longer stings,
Then one can dry their eyes
And return to the world with stoicism.
It is no short wonder
That laughter is the best medicine;
The gods must laugh themselves,
As described by much mythical misfortune.
I see and feel
The falling hail
What was rain is now ice
And it will litter the many fields.
It is the grain of heaven
White as snow or cloud
It falls in sheets, cast from the husk
And melts to feed the Earth again.
On the heels of Red-Beard's goats
Comes the shower of frozen rain;
As the thunder cracks,
So too does this against stone and wood.
~End Verses One~