The great man sits alone within the hut,
his peasant face not much to look at, but
the frigid thoughts that flow within his mind
are much concerned with time, not humankind.
Outside the window change is measured by
the dripping icicles that signify
the end of winter's elongated clock,
days pounded out upon the chopping block.
Too far away the prison camps that cleanse
the nation of its multiethnic wens,
for myopic philosophers to see
the discarded piles of humanity.
The winter pools are deep and cold,
his tread is heavy, growing old.
Now wearied by the tasks ahead,
he scratches runes inside the shed.
His mind unpicks the threadbare lore,
a cloth worn thin from Grecian shore
to Konigsberg, where spiders spun
those webs abhorred by Englishmen.
I, Hugin know who is to blame.
Why should he claim a famous name?
Once more the wolves have eaten Sun and Moon.
Dread giants rule the Earth again and soon
the flow of blood becomes unstoppable.
Meanwhile the sage ponders at his table.
He thinks and scribbles, seeing none of this,
in his small shelter of domestic bliss.
What is the import of these mighty words
that fly above the heads of human herds?
Time and being crush down the suffering
but to him, unbearable lightness of being
is just reward for self inflicted toil
in the cultivated land of German soil.
He delves in mines for Rhenish gold,
and grasps the ring that was untold,
when time's old serpent's tail uncurled,
between its fangs to show our world.
We brothers say he has no name,
and fly to Odin with the same
dire message that his fate is sealed.
without our runes, his heart's not healed.
I, Munin shall forget his lore,
and shall forget it evermore.