Marketing
To the faroes I
There you are old man, alone in the hall,
deserted and left by the younger,
the sword is corroded, your ironshirt falls
in pieces from ages of hunger,
your fair voice is gone, noone answers your calls
any longer.
The untuned harp is still in your hand,
resounding poems in dawn,
Chieftains met on the sea swept strands
fled from opression and sorn
your songs were strong and far through the lands
they were borne.
The lights are burning out by your seat
the shadows are restless and pale,
old man, you are like the ancient old tree
that fells by old age in the dale,
you should have gone to the games of the free
and died on weal.
Hew your bitter brand so bright,
the twilight fells on your way
the ravens cry from the cliffs tonight,
waiting for feast and for prey.
Soon the Valhall appears in your sight
on this last day.
(by Heri Joensen,Týr)
Post je objavljen 28.11.2007. u 09:58 sati.