Terror steed.
He drinks from the well
where Mimir’s head
hoards the runes.
His avatars stand in forgotten corners.
I found one in a fragment of green
saved from the sprawl of the Great Wen;
his grey trunk was lightning-scarred,
yet bravely he held up his broken arms,
and under his root, bees were nesting.
Beset by serpents, nibbled by stags,
still he bears up the weight of the world.
Without his breath, the air we breathe
would choke, not nourish. Our lives hang
on his outspread arms, athirst for the sweet
inspiring ale which Bragi brews.
Wisdom’s words
lie in the well;
you must ride the terror-steed to read them,
but the price is high, and few will pay it,
though one eye sees more clearly than two
how when the ash shakes the earth trembles,
and terror-steed bears off the quick and the dead.
