Shout! For the skalds of legend’s songs
fallen from sight yet bright,
strong and forgotten,
like lost fortresses caressed by moonlight.
Names matter not when night falls
and shadows shiver the spines
of warriors brave.
Sounds waxing and waning
through flickering firelight,
thralls dashing and crashing from cup to cup,
echoes of heroes piping through prone ears and slashed thrones.
Withered whistlings of bone granting shelter from wind,
the singing of spirits poised for sudden descent
of decadence ‘till death.
Go! Arcing arrows split into heathen’s shards.
Strike! Sound the boiling of blood within brazen hearts.
Who were the true heroes of Hrothgar’s hall?
Were they the swords, or were they the words?