Writhing riposte in webs of winding arrange,
Wayland dragged in the dreary,
driven to win, wassailing his sorrows,
the longings that lingered him,
chilled cares his mates, once Nithhad
laid him up in the narrow, limb-lanced
the turnings of the true craftsman.
He got through much of that, maybe we will too.
Her brother’s death never perplexed her,
Beadohilde, so much as her own heartbreaks.
She knew it couldn’t deny it —
that she was pregnant,
yet could never design its outcome.
She got through much of that, maybe we will too.
Many things to learn & know
about Mæthhild’s reaping the results,
can you sound the deeps of this Geat’s love,
what steals the sleep from them all?
They got through much of that, maybe we will too.
Some Theodric or other kept clutch
on the princely keep on the borderlands
for thirty whole winters.
We know that at least —
Someone got through much of that, maybe we will too.
Better ask somebody about Eormanric,
his lycanthrope thinkings —
locking down his limitless realm,
out there in Gothic lands.
That was one grim lord, I tell you what.
There were many sitting sinew-bound,
sorrow-wound, weening their woes,
wisting atimes that the whole mess
should come crashing down.
Those guys got through much of that, maybe we will too.
One sits sorrow-cheered,
unmoored in space & time,
shadowing in selves, studying within —
our share of turbulence seems unending.
They can think it through in world,
the lord of craft can often change it.
To many a mind, the goodness is shown,
the crop of sagacity —
and to others some share of the dregs.
What would I say about myself?
Somewhat a time I shaped the singings
for the Heodenings, loved by my lord.
I used to be deor myself, now a beast.
I claimed the role & did it well
for many winters, holding to the bread-giver.
Until now — this Heorrenda, limbs lapped in verse,
crafty at both, took up my land-claims,
all that my sheltering lord granted me before.
They all got through much of that, maybe I will too.