Throwing down hornfulls of mead.
Boasting of exploits, of who can succeed
Who's bravest and best, most able.
And the ring of the gold on their arms
Drowns out the sound of wind in the rafter
And the memory of what comes after.
The skald sings of witches and charms.
But gold and glory are children's toys.
There is no magic to turn back death.
They drink and sing while they still have breath,
Light torches, bellow, and raise their noise.
Out in green marshlight, the willow and osier
Bend to the wind as the monsters come closer.
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