Fall Of The Gods Poem by Franc Rodriguez

Fall Of The Gods

The war of the athelings had not yielded,
and the werd of the clans was unwieldy.
A loathsome wrath of harsh gnornwreak,
spread onto the kingdoms of the clansmen.
A wanton madness hitherto was brewing,
beyond the elderdom of the clans swiftly.
Bloodthirsty clashes would gar the clans,
to break asunder the thede of the brethren.
But there was forsooth yet a clash awaiting,
and it would bring the war to a halting end.
It would intertwine and enmesh the Gods,
into a wretched and unwanted outcome.
Thus tidings of the war reached the Gods,
through the ravens they would send.
The days were mared with yemeless blood,
and the war of the Gods it would become.
The onwald of the clans would bond anew,
as a fierd under the banner of brotherhood.
A frightening new happening would betide,
that they would fight the Gods of greed.
It was a dright of evil that would in the end,
arouse their willfullness and werhood.
The truce of aforetime betwixt the gods tore,
and a new gryre had begun to breed.
On one wistful day the clans were gathered,
on a burgstead graith within the slade of tors.
Through the fog brastling beyond the knolls,
came the landfierds of Loki, Fenrir and Hel.
Under their behest came the horde of orcs,
ents, trolls, like slayers of forgotten wars.
A throng of wroth fleshmongers then came,
as they strove mightily upon the dale.
Abreast the athelings and thanes were Jutes,
Frisians, Saxons, with elves and nords.
A blazing fire upon the flank by Loki’s hand,
reached the warriors and agrised the others.
Doom befell on the kinsmen it would seem,
as they felt the fastness of the baleful lords.
With lightening rods from the sky came Thor,
to stint quickly the throng of evildoers.
The endless hild thus became an endless war,
betwixt the strength of the gods afresh.
The lasting breath of the goddess Hel blew,
like a whirlpool of weight upon the earth.
It bore through the byrnies of the kinsmen,
and it would briskly reach their flesh.
The earth shook as darkness wried the sky,
and a loud roar was heard beyond the firth.
It was Heimdall blowing yape his mighty horn,
to deafen the ears of the nithings in the rear.
Fenrir came striding from beyond the knolls,
howling like an unwielded bustling wind.
He would deafen the ears of the clansmen,
and the drights could only wish to forbear.
The Midgard was chosen to wage their war,
and it seemed to be a war that had no end.
The behoof of Odin would sway the fight,
on behalf of the drights of goodness.
From the sky on an eight legged horse he came,
to grasp the fiends and leave them listless.
And into a whirlpool they would dwine then,
a token of the plight of their madness.
The light of the nine worlds of the gods shone,
beyond the broad tungles of the allness.
The worship of the mighty gods came to an end,
and the coming of a new god was foretold.
Thenceforth the time of the elders would wane,
and the might of the athelings was never the same.
The fall of the gods was written and kept alive,
through the skalds that came to unfold.
Their names were to be found within the runes,
and within the wuldor of the lore that it became.

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