The land is dry underfoot crackling defiantly at our passage
heralding the mist monsters to our side,
so that blood may stain the air in great merriment.
Verily did my heart quiver in foresight of death
to such an extreme that my sword became heavy.
A heavy and fetid odor stung at my nostrils
becoming more intense with each step taken,
wandering halls decorated by mortal fear, which is foolish.
I must be worth my own existence, thus fearless.
Such was the custom of my savage North land.
Through ever deeper walls of folliage we travelled
unaware of the deceit that walked about us;
the trees did not seem as trees, nor did anything in fact.
The land had beguiled us with all her old wisdom.
So seemed the nature of our plight.
Among them I felt as kin might, or a true Northman
entering the first steps of fierce battle to the death me,
surely I would not endure this moment of time;
from the distance I saw their sheildmaidens hungry for my soul
grinning most favorably at my comrades.
There is a saying in the far lands west and it is simple,
the truth it speaks is beyond my comprehensions
nor am I able to apprechiate it while alive.
We are all condemned to a final place of rest;
blood and soil.
I've been on a mythological binge these last few weeks.. I've always been curious of the Norse pantheon but I have trouble understanding it's really weird connectedness.
In any case, this is set in the universe of Michael Crichton's Eaters of the Dead, which is apparently the movie 13th warrior.
Also, the saying I spoke of is the last line, blood and soil, which wasn't said until many, MANY years afterwards. It was used during the Holocaust and I imagine you can fill in the rest.
Yes, I realize this poem is missing something.
the love you withhold is the pain you carry.