“Dear Womba, friend; this thread is short.
When I am gone and can speak no more,
and eat dust, whilst worm-chewed, gnawed,
and Niðmund nibbles at my breast,
and can neither walk nor dance nor sing
for all my joints have been far-stretched,
bones scattered, throat torn, ravaged
by the rats and worms of deepest earth
to feast on bloody heart and guts of mine;
when great Greed, the king of gnawers, comes;
the grinding one, who shreds all flesh
to drill my eyes out from this skull –
sing songs of me, my dearest friend,
and dance, as if I still was there.”