Dusk of the Fimbulwinter

A slow kill in the white, harsh realms,
whence wraiths breathe thy wilted valour,
- harbingers of a wretched hollowness -,
akin to wintry swirls of the Unlight's chant,
the last flickering embers of a long forsaken foe …

Yet, amidst bitterness thou wander the path so cold !
Life turns into perpetual frost and frost turns to eternal rime .

Verily, Thurses plough their malice :
their bleak harvest, full of sorrow
strewn about thy years,
whilst Man weeps for the morrow
and the morrow never nears …

Thither, unbound, the Wolf
approaches from the North ;
Venoms of a final winter's
jaws bathe the ground .
Waging axes shatter,
kinships perish swiftly !

Its tempest of a myriad spoiling onslaughts,
while Hel calls mankind to final rest :
May keen vigour salute the utter twilight !

Anon, it were adders drink from the feeble wounds of thine !
Seasons forced to writher, - all virtues swept away -,
nigh Fimbulwinter's dusk …

Transcendence …
A monumental wrath of thy Fallen …
Immortality …
At one with Vindsval's blight …
Serenity ...
A mournful passing in dreadful grief …