~ By
Courtesy of Others ~
Weland
Poetic from:
Villanelle
I blow the charcoal flame for forging steel;
I swing my hammer, strike again; sparks fly.
My legs are withered and shall never heal.
This bloody-glowing weapon I anneal,
I quench the blade. Steam hisses its reply.
I blow the charcoal flame for forging steel.
Once I lived free, and knew life’s highest weal.
I found my battle-maid—in wars she’d vie.
My legs are withered and shall never heal.
These hands once stroked her, knew that skin’s
soft feel;
They saw her face more clearly than my eye.
I blow the charcoal flame for forging steel.
Hamstrung by Nidhad now, I’m forced to kneel;
My swan-maid's flown, my gold’s now his supply.
My legs are withered and shall never heal.
This smithy echoes with my hammer's peal.
Naught else to do. Harsh trade my hands now ply:
I blow the charcoal flame for forging steel.
His daughter sometimes comes to bring my meal;
I catch her glance of pity, hear her sigh:
My legs are withered and shall never heal.
I smith revenge within my mind, conceal
My thought: the king’s twin sons shall surely die.
I blow the charcoal flame for forging steel.
To forge my wings shall be my last ordeal;
She had wings, too. . . I’ll seek her in the sky.
My legs are wounded and shall never heal.
I blow the charcoal flame for forging steel.
© Ben
Waggoner
Ben Waggoner has translated numerous Old Norse Sagas.
His books on Lulu.
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