When ages fell, their sagas spun their thread,
And frost-crowned winds proclaimed the world’s decline;
The wolf of dusk rose hungry from the dead,
And stars grew pale beneath the hand of Time.
The great ash groaned where ancient fates were spun,
Their runes of doom cut deep in root and stone;
For even gods must meet the dusk they shun,
And Odin’s hall shall one day stand alone.
Yet from the pyre where dying embers lie
A tender flame may wake beneath the snow;
Though shattered heavens darken earth and sky,
Still seeds long lost in winter’s dark may grow.
So though the horn of ending loud be blown,
No fate is sealed while breath remains our own.