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Prophetic Dream

Posted: 31 Jan 2018 16:30
by Nazheek
Hearing I ask from the holy races,
From Heimdall's sons, both high and low;
Thou wilt, Valfather, that well I relate
Old tales I remember of men long ago.

I remember yet the giants of yore,
Who gave me bread in the days gone by;
Nine worlds I knew, the nine in the tree
With mighty roots beneath the mold.

Of old was the age when Ymir lived;
Sea nor cool waves nor sand there were;
Earth had not been, nor heaven above,
But a yawning gap, and grass nowhere.

Then Bur's sons lifted the level land,
Mithgarth the mighty there they made;
The sun from the south warmed the stones of earth,
And green was the ground with growing leeks.

The sun, the sister of the moon, from the south
Her right hand cast over heaven's rim;
No knowledge she had where her home should be,
The moon knew not what might was his,
The stars knew not where their stations were.

Then sought the gods | their assembly-seats,
The holy ones, and council held;
Names then gave they to noon and twilight,
Morning they named, and the waning moon,
Night and evening, the years to number.

At Ithavoll met the mighty gods,
Shrines and temples timbered high;
Forges they set, and they smithied ore,
Tongs they wrought, and tools they fashioned.

In their dwellings at peace they played at tables,
Of gold no lack | did the gods then know,--
Till thither came up giant-maids three,
Huge of might, out of Jotunheim.