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~ Poetry by me ~


The Binding Ones
(& Epilogue by Nick Ford, at bottom of page)

Ill you kept your oath, blood-brother,
slaying Balder, my son!
Watch as I make a wolf of your own son,
tearing his brother to bits!

Ill you kept your oath, blood-brother,
cruel foe to my family!
You exiled or killed nigh all of my children—
A wolf will revenge me on you!

Fenrir lies chained, as I fetter you now
with the bloody guts of your get.
Better such brood is bound in time
before it brings harm to humans.

No hand you own for oathing or fighting:
Who would trust you, betrayer?
The wolf is strong, for he stands in a pack:
To Garm you will leave your life!

I string these bonds to stones beneath you,
under neck, back, and knees.
Hlodyn will hold you heavily now;
Slow is time´s passage in pain.

The Serpent´s coils will cling to you
before you fall to her poison!
How I regret regaining you Mjolnir,
which will kill my own kin.

My father you felled, and the fairest of Gods,
and dared to brag of your deeds!
This snake shall spew its spit on you
and keep you eternal company.

Better I liked your laugh, etin-maid,
when I was just bound by the balls.
Nor breathing nor dead has Balder been yours:
Go search the sea for his ashes!

Now leave, you traitors! Live in fear
until the day of your doom—
Your bane will I be, Binding Ones,
when I break the bonds of the world!

© 2007 Michaela Macha

License: This poem may be freely distributed, provided it remains
unchanged, including the copyright notice and this License:

This work by Michaela Macha (www.odins-gift.com) is licensed
under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives License.

P.S. "Binding Ones" is an allusion to the word "bönd" of the same meaning,
which was used for the Gods (like "regin", "megin" etc.)


Freyja (to herself):

"Of all trees alone, no oath was asked
Of the mistletoe bough, to mean no hurt to Baldur;
Blind Hodr held, and hurled, the branch:
Wood and wielder, both I hold blameless.

Now is my bright boy house-bound to Hel,
Gone down with Yule-sun, to rise yet in season.
Til Ragnarok's raging is over, my own,
Well shall win through the strife of the World-Storm.

Shall I rail with the rest, shaming its shaper?
Shall I gloat with glee, and carp at a captive?
Brave work indeed! Let each do what he does best:
Witting, or unwitting, each part in the plan."

© Nick Ford

Poetic form: Ljóðaháttr (Song Meter)