Twenty Times a Hundred

Twenty times a hundred years, the Thurse takes to run its road.
Pyres hurl the fallen, heavenward in a swarthy cloud.
Dim Sleep-thorns dull, the Ond of the Folk,
Spelling the Doom of the Gods.

The fewest of mighty trees, still stand.
Lost tribes letting, blood on the holy land.
Withered leaves in a cave, betrothe the past,
Freeing the wights in lies, for centuries bound.

From whitened bones, and rusty blades,
From Innangard, we wrest the truth,
Each one, according to her strength,
Names of Gods and Goddesses all, again upon our breath.

Never again will we, our way forsake,
Though weal or woe, it may bring.
Standing fast in our hames, this we ken:
No one will stand, 'tween us and the future again!

By Dan Miller