Firn

Snow falls over the fallen leaves of autumn departed
the bleak white a mirror to my desolation
there will be no feasting in these four walls
the cold fits me like a body bag
Niflheim comes to envelope the world
in chill clutch and frostbitten breath
and the death of warmth and light
the cold fits me like a funeral shroud
The wolf will come to devour the moon
and brother slay brother with mistletoe spear
the time of endings upon us
the cold fits me like a pauper’s tomb
This snow will not last but remain
a harbinger of the cessation of the gods
until Sol’s daughter rises anew
the cold fits me like an unmarked grave

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