It was in a time before silence was altered ―
just as daybreak came walking across the region
while cloudshadows swept onwards ― observing.
And the world set ― in Dumbness; uncountable scars
where excessive junk searched of ways to be charming…
(Myself? Wandered free there the dew never dries
and all of Life’s paths showed forward to Odin.)
We vaguely remembered safety and honestly owned excess,
real life in beauteous honour ― a longing home to Asgard;
to grow well rooted value only Goodness could bid Us.
(Obeying my steps. Leaving the bare ground opened traces
in time before the first snow will return as a threat.)
Skillfully, surely all too well, Truth answers:
“Tear down any seeming solace ― it is venality: Death.
We have foes to correct; to pay our plight, in our sight,
for naught stand more fairer grown than killed lies in life.
Let shatter the nightmareyears. Give Truth to hate and cure.
BE HONOURED! MIGHT AND GLADNESS! SET YOUR LIFE’S ROOT!”
We know, know how a shattered thought bit us:
That to life dragged will here be thrashed.
(Now owning the last torn down lifeline.)
Weakening down, defying that weakness is death.
These are tangled years
where the wishing doesn’t reach down to matter;
wrecked frozen unripe buds
where needs don’t manage to reach up to any will
from the fallow; the growth lands,
there lust rarely tricks itself grown above loathing.
(In front of hurtfilled opened eyes to realities
burns a cold indifference down inside; through us:
Dumbness of Worlds in all its swathing wholeness.)
Viet, the new time, taking year after year,
where blow upon blow sets the boundaries of the helpless
and harshly hits any survival with swath after swath
(This world where thinking has stayed in death
and the rotten parts of wholeness are to be cured;
leaving a new unity worthy of our lives.)
Righting here this world’s flat and foul opinions.
Life, awaken to be sharply lived with the Rights
teach that all rot inside came from outer affront
and finding no value in murdered sufficiency
Shaping Midgard’s holds and leaving all emptiness.
Blowing down powdersnow from a pine branch
onto cold, light grey shadows; in the wilderness
(The verge of the ground a reminder of Our gathering.)
Gently gave Water and Wind Life to the cloud
meanwhile snow journeyed in a concern to remain
upon forest hills stones; to be glanced towards the edge
(Finding Now in the stillness,
in a fleeing movement:
All gone and awaiting time.)
Somewhat hesitant break runnels through the ice,
somewhat insolent, asking: When do We reach Home?
This so grievously lovable clarity’s Winterglade
is surely leaving its Answers in the abstruse
alike streamcaressed stones over the creeks have stayed
in the frozen years
Demand our new freedom, as all other time is stricken.