O mighty Lofn, for you’re to grasp
the extent of my sheer longing
as sure you did with those as raw
that came to you before,
I summon you in this cold dawn
of endless, looping yearning
so I can lay bare upon you hands
my unworthy, bleeding soul.
Of all my kind I’m not to outstand
in fairness nor in wittiness,
neither Freyja’s gifts nor Iđunn’s fate
were meant for me to share,
I’m more the sort of those cliff rocks
having the sole, grim purpose
to test upon how many blows
do take for them to break.
He’s neither the fairest of all men
and yet, he holds the knowledge
to kindle up in every heart
such sacred, inner fires
that when his voice fills the air
the pace of Midgard’s turning
stops its gears to not disturb
the unspoiled pine of his lyre.
Should any wight of ill-natured will
feel the stark need to haunt him,
the pain that’s meant to harm his flesh
see it’s instead inflicted on me,
for along my path, forever on,
all that’s to bring blythe meaning
—my tiniest hopes, my inmost dreams—
clings braided to his beard.
And since there is neither grace nor wealth
that I can bring to offer you
and that of words is the only gift
it seems I’ve scarcely been given
please, have my verse, kind-hearted Lofn,
so ripe with brimming emotion:
a humble token of my pledge
for you to employ at will.
For if there’s a chance for human intent
to cross the ageless boundaries
of space and time and get, somehow
to reach your divine being
I shall use mine to ask from you
the grace to live honourable
and bring sheer joy to those around
yet shattered and void within.
For neither my will nor my despair
shan’t move the state of all things
—the staves were carved so deep, so harsh,
that’s vain to make the attempt
so all I got left in this life
is naught but earn a place for
my adoring soul so upon his gaze
an eternity it shall dwell.