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The creaking rope, the gnarled tree,
The body hanging down,
Spinning, spinning twistedly.
Spinning, spinning round,
Round about with each stray breeze,
The corpse is gustily wound.
A spear slides in with ghastly ease.
Of this prisoner, a sacrifice is made,
The Hanging God in hope to please.
Be ye, o watchers, much afraid,
For a volva has been found,
This thing will speak with her arcane aid.
Whilst wolves prowl upon the ground.
The hanged are given to Hroptatyr,
Hearst thou his ravens making raucous sounds?
It should fill thy hearts with fear, this queer
Theater of a hanged man deadly reeking.
But to Old Grim it is quite dear.
From the dead do seers come seeking
Knowledge of the other worlds,
And force the ghoul to speaking.
Jackie Hannigan 6/2/2005
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Scrying the Well
Poetic Form: Terza Rima
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