Wyrd

Wyrd

«Wyrd bið ful aræd»
(The Wanderer, VI sec.)

In freezing ice-caves,
plunged into spirals of eternal mists,
they don't consider, nor do they ask,
those who weave.
Yet, there still is the choice,
everlasting struggle for subsistence,
what I am leads to what I'll be
and what I'll be draws what I am.

The wheel turns with every step,
yarn of ethereal thickness,
every turn is spooled
suffering cold and fair ordeal.

When one enwines with many
-no longer blind and deaf – advancing
in the relentless deathly journey
towards the supreme ring giver.
Brethren come back on their shields
from the desperate chevauchee,
always weaklings, cravens maybe,
but surely blinded by the lustshroud.