Ravens' call
bursts forth across the plain.
Here gather the sons of Stormcrow,
gathered from mount and mound and fen.
Resounds now the blasting horn
from hallowed, quaking space
before the High Ones' golden hall.
Ride forth the Frightful Ones,
Death's war-maidens bold.
Above, they marshall the clans to war --
gods and men fight side-by-side tonight.
Cold, the three years' winter has lasted;
cruel rime-winds bitter o'er the earth have passed.
Amidst the swirling snows and deeping mist,
they sally forth to doom.
The Dark One rises, faces the mighty horn-blower;
tonight shall be their last.
God by god and man by man,
the warriors fall, their final battle now come;
the worlds tremble 'neath their clamour --
Lo! The World-Serpent stirs.
Beneath the roots of World-Ash, the wyrm ceases his gnawing
to watch in waiting wonder the fate of the realms of men and wight and god.
Hell's fortress has burst asunder;
countless multitudes have swarmed forth.
The moon runs red with blood as the wolf opens his jaws;
bright shining man of the night, he rasps his final breath.
Mighty Thunder strides forth and the Serpent grasps.
Stroke for stroke, blow for blow,
the Wyrm is pierced through.
Thunder triumphs and shouts of joy rise from the field.
But for naught, for naught!
The earth trembles; the earth shakes,
and a rumbling fills the air.
Thunder sinks to a knee, the venom is too strong.
And with a mighty defiant laugh,
and spitting contempt at his growing darkness dim,
passes from amongst the gathered host.
Silence falls over the armies.
The final hour has come at last.
Thyrs-giants swarm forth, met each to another,
arm for arm, spear for spear, not a one is left unchallenged.
And one by one, all the host falls to gloam.
Greybeard cries out; it is at an end --
smokes fill the skies.
All is silent.
All is gone.

The worlds are undone.

Ash is falling from the skies.
All the realms of men and gods lie in ruins.
The sun and moon have passed beyond sight.
A great sigh fills the Abyss,
a weeping without words or voice.
Yet on the darkened battle-plains
there stirs a wind, and breath is drawn.
Has but one survived?
Nay ... two, and a third beside.
Life-giver, Life-bearer,
and the Hidden One.
Man and mate and secret god.
Blood-washed, sweat and grime cling to their gore.
Beaten and ragged, but still alive,
they cling, one to another
and look over the strange, silent plain.
Their wounds grim should have killed,
and kill they did,
yet they live -- dead once, but reborn.
A song of triumph, a song of remembrance,
a death-song for gods and sons of gods --
they scream thier triumph into the night sky.
Twilight no more!
Let the world be reborn, let it begin anew...

The seers' eyes open
and gaze again with new understanding,
each into the other's.
Each into that which is and is no more.
Singing still in triumph,
they turn and rise in their seats toward the heavens.
And smiling,
wipe away the tears and soot and blood.

Scíráţ (Alexander D. Matthews, II)
12 January 2004

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