A red **** crows,
A ****** hound howls,
Their mistress awakes at dawn,
Comely is she,
A gorgeous bride,
When viewed from one side,
But turning around,
A hideous face,
Like a corpse that has rotted through,
Up she rises,
From the bed,
That is called by the name of Disease,
Through the Gleaming Bale,
She rises and stretches,
And dresses to meet the throng,
On her hip she straps,
Great Famine her knife,
And through the halls of Sleet-Cold she walks,
The people they rise,
And the gods there asleep,
And each takes up a great sword,
The the threshold they go,
The Pit of Stumbling,
And follow their mistress's call.
The time has come,
The dead arise,
And march along the Hel-Way.

~Muninn's Kiss, December 7, 2013