Árstíðir Lífsins
Saga á tveim tungum II: Eigi fjǫll né firðir
1. Ek býð þik velkominn
I:
Velkominn í lífit, ávarpar maðr sjálfan sik.
Ek býð þik velkominn, ungt líf sem þitt
augum orgar til vera setrs. Unga flón, er flúðir
leggja aldr feigrar móður. Þín barátta við at fin-
na þau fyrstu lífsskref er fengin mér í hendr, til
hjálpar. Undrsamligar grænar hallir liggja fyrir,
blikandi byrjar láð í sólarsilfri lofa undir sem
ofan. Flýr glóð af tryggum stalli hrjótgrams ok
aldrstrega. Snark elris garms, grenjan húsbrjót-
sins, hið breiða hljóman horns minnar iðju.
Ungt líf, ert þú velkominn til glams stoðar er
friðar ok lífi safnar, ok sleppir lífi þeirra lifanda
aptr. Hér, er strit lífs ok aldrtila ávalt umlyk-
jandi. Hér, sundvorpuðir eru ætíð viðar hunds
bræðr, sárgagls hirðimeiðir ok Haddingja lond.
English: I Welcome You
Once welcomed to life, man begins to judge
and fight. I welcome you, young life as you
open your eyes unto this world. Young foul,
escaping from the death of a dying mother.
Your fight to find the first steps into life is pla-
ced in my helping arms. Wonderous green cast-
les ahead, blinking sea of the silver sun above
and below. Embers flee from a secured place
of fire and death. The cracking of the fire, the
howl of the wind, the wide sound of a horn I
blow. Young life, you are welcomed to a world
that gathers peace in life, and releases life from
the living again. Here, the struggle of life and
death is ever present. Here, winds are everlast-
ing brothers to fire, wood and water.
2. Bróðir, var þat þín hǫnd
Bróðir, var þat þín hond? Mik dreymir
grímu-draum, af dimmum skýflókum,
af selju grandi ok hrapmunna hendr komandi
frá hvítum ásjónum Hlés dætra. Starandi augu
af drungalegu andliti, í sárri kvol, ná stjarn-
ljósi mínu. Bróðir, var þat þín hond? Þat hau-
ka klif hvarf undir kalt flóð ásynju blóðs ok
dansandi kroppar leika enn sitt aldrtila tafl,
fjarri neðan við steymandi svarbláan himinn
jarðar. Broðir, var þat þín hond? Ek man þau
skip nálgask gegnum dimma skýflóka, sem
klufu sundr fellihryn fjalla at opnum svarðar
strondum jotuns hins forna Boðnar báru mín
móðir eitt sinn kvað. En sem þau skip færðusk
nær við sjónarrond skýja grátrs ok ór hvítrar
Ránar munni, augu mín lokask ok þá birtisk
fyrir mér aðeins eitt nafn, aptr ok aptr. Óláfr
þrænda buðlingr á þessu landi viðda, Óláfr sá ser
færir bitr stríð án enda, Óláfr, dómr yfirvofandi
vígnaðrs staffs sem aldrei féll fyrri. Bróðir, var
þat þín hond?
English: Brother, Was That Your Hand?
Brother, was that your hand? I dream a
dream of night, of dark clouds, of storms
and a fist coming from the white faces of the
daughters of Rán. Staring eyes of a gloomy face
in bitter agony reach my stars of light. Brother,
was that your hand? The hand vanishes under
cold waves and the dancing bodies play again
their game of death far below moving dark-blue
skies of the earth. Brother, was that your hand?
I remember approaching ships through dark
clouds that cleave daughters into open skulls.
Giant-old myths my mother once told me. But
as the ships approach the scenery of winds and
high waves, my eyes close and reveal only one
name again and again: Óláfr, king in this land
of wood, Óláfr, bringer of bitter wars that never
end, Óláfr, impending doom to trees that never
fell before. Brother, was that your hand?
3. Sem járnklær nætr dragask nærri
Sem járnklær nætr dragask nærri, long
haukstrond viðar ok kastar heljar hittir
fyrir þær mikilfenglegu gáttir þeirra þróttar
þings holls, er engan tók enda. Gneistar gneifðu
ok margr halr safnaðisk um alls viðar her í
þeim andans dal er ek kalla heima. Gegnum
hvískrandi nið skýja gandrs, Landvættir mik
kalla út at berja loganda dal augum. Villtr dans
bræða markar meinþjófs, Hogna meyjar viðs.
Deyjandi glæður mæta stjornum ofan þegar
þær mæta gæsku Vidda bróðrs. Með grosin
græn ok brúnan svorð undir mínum ilkvistum
ek geng at megin stað átrúnaðar. Þórr ok Týr,
Freyr ok Ullr, Ek veit þér eruð oss næs á þessar-
ri helgu nótt Ísa brots komu. Svo háir eru jotna
vegir Fornjóts sona, ok svo breið eru vápnagjoll
at flæða skal úr Háars saltunnu. Minn ennis-
máni nam sjá Hákon goði í fjarska, kalladi
at manna sjotnum. Með Yggjar éls bál reisk í
hendi ek heyrða ræða svo hatrsramma. Klæddr
í brúnsvort klæði krýpr krúnrakaðr maðrinn,
með heift, frammi fyrir goðanum. Hrafnkell,
hið unga skáld ok fylgjandi munka dróttins
hefr verið leiðandi í vorri byggð.
Svá skyldu goð gjalda,
gram reki bond af londum,
reið sé rogn ok Óðinn,
rán míns fjár hánum.
Fólk mýgi lát flýja,
Freyr ok Njorðr, af jordðum.
Leiðisk lofða stríði
landáss, þann er vé grandar.
(Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 28)
Morðsólar veik máli
meiðir; sinnar leiðar
gekk ramms hotuðr rekka
rógs í þorp ór skógi.
Menfergir vas margan
móthress í bœ þessum
vetr, ok vann til mætrar
vargnistir sér bjargar.
(Anonymous Poems, Plácitusdrápa 29)
Hrafnkell lýtr niðr at dolkbrands dokkvri grun
í bljúgri bæn. Með handar tjolgr uppreistar.
Honum er kastað í sand-hvítan fórnar pytt
laussra líkama. Hrafnkels fljúgandi tunga biðr
friðar sem þó aldrei kemr.
Þjód á hart, sús hlýða
hildings boðum vildat
lofða kyns meðan lifði,
lýtum kend fyr hendi.
Sú rasar aum í aumar
óvísligar píslir;
ey grœtir þar ýta
uggr, en vætki huggar.
(Gamli kanóki, Harmsól 38)
Fynk þola flæðar auknir
fleygjendr þrimu leygjar
- þar liggr elds á oldum
íma - frost með bríma.
Morgs onnur þar manna
meiri ógn ok fleira
angr, an ór megi tunga,
óvegs, frá því segja.
(Gamli kanóki, Harmsól 39)
En sem tunga hans flograr um múgin sem kallar
upp af hatri ok sorg, sækir morðbálið leið sína
at hvítum skýjum Hranfkels sjónar bergs. Sem
Hákon dregr fram pínt Heimdallar hofuð, skal
hin lærða tunga fylgjara hins bjarta manns ór
suðri ekki fleiðra meir. Landa andar, Háars þeg-
nar dýrra ríkja, hvar er sá friðr er ek heyrði at
mundi stafa af handa gapmunni Heimdallar er
ek kom í dal þenna fyr longu síðan? Myrk er sú
tíð komandi, ok verjendr anda landa leiða hana á
brott úr þeim stað sem nú er roðinn logðis lodda
logleysunnar.
English: As The Iron Claws Of Night Draw Near
As the iron claws of night draw near,
the long hands of wood and fire meet
before the majestic doors of never ending
houses of trees. Sparks fly and many men are
gathered around holy fires in this spiritual val-
ley I call home. Through whispering sounds
of the wind, I am called out by Landvættir to
behold a valley alight before my eyes. A wild
dance of brothers to the fire giant with trees.
Dying embers meet the stars above when they
meet the kindness of the wind. Blades of green,
grounds of brown, both of them are beneath my
feet as I walk below towards the centre place of
whorship. Þórr and Tyr, Freyr and Ullr, I know
you are near to us on this holy night of the ar-
rival of spring. So high are the moutains of
fire, and so wide the blood must flow out of the
bowl. My eyes see Hákon goði from afar, shou-
ting towards the village. With the sacrifical
knife raised, I hear a speach so hateful. Clad in
brown-black cloths, a tonsured man knees acri-
moniously before the goði. Hrafnkel, young
poet and follower of the god of the monks, has
been a leading figure in our community.
Let the gods banish the ruler, pay him for stealing
my wealth, let him incur the wrath of Óðinn and
the gods. Make the tyrant flee his lands, Freyr and
Njorðr; may Þórr the land-god be angered at his
foe, the defiler of his holy place.
(Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 28)
The destroyer of the war-sun broke off his
speech; the hater of the fierce strife of men went
his way from the forest into a village. The batt-
le-fierce neckring-destroyer was many a winter
in that town and the wolf-feeder earned a good
living.
(Anonymous Poems, Plácitusdrápa 29)
Hrafnkel bows down to the blood ground of
worship. With hands raised, he is thrown into
our hallowed sand-white sacrificial pit of released
bodies. Hrafnkel's flying tongue prays for a peace
that never comes.
The group of people, known for sins, who
would not heed the commandments of the prince
of the race of men while it lived, faces hardship.
It rushes wretched into wretched, uncertain tor-
tures; fear grieves people there perpetually, and
nothing affords comfort.
(Gamli kanóki, Harmsól 38)
Flingers are the flame of battle, swollen with fal-
sehood, endure stench, frost with flame; there lie
embers of fire upon men. Many another greater
terror for dishonourable men is there and more
sorrow than my tongue is able to discribe.
(Gamli kanóki, Harmsól 39)
But as his tongue flies around a shouting au-
dience of hate and grief, the knife seeks its way
towards the white clouds of Hrafnkel's eyes. As
Hákon drags the suffering head forward, the le-
arned tongue of the follower of the bright man
from the south sings no more. Spirits of the
earth, gods of the kingdoms so dear, where is the
peace that I learned to be leading hands of Heim-
dallr when I entered this valley long ago? Dark
are the seasons to come, and guardian spirits of
the land lead her away from a place now reddened
with the blood of turmoil.
4. Gamalt ríki faðmar þá grænu ok svǫrtu hringi lífs ok aldrslita
Gamalt ríki faðmar þá grænu ok svortu
bringi lífs ok aldrslita, þá er sér engan
endi eiga. Skógar eru þeir kallaðir, en grænir
hreifa kvistir á því steinda ljóni þeir virðask
mér. Ek ráfa gegnum dokkvan himin ok uppljó-
maða Leifins grundar mána viði, umkringdr
dansandi Álfum. Hvar er sá friðr er Viðris van-
da veðrstafir fundu eitt sinn í þessum lífssolum
sem sér engan endi eiga? Úr fjarska vígleipr
Surts brennir sjóvoll við svorð. Guðbrandsdalr
er sá kallaðr ok Yggs ærir hljóta að hafa flúið
frá Hliðskjálfa sínu er ek nálgaðisk þann stað
sem brátt skal aldrei verða aptr. Brá merki mín
nam sjá fylkingu Hvíta Krists, án tolu, leika
hormungar song hinna syngjandi randar mána
millum toptar nokkva, helgt Heimdallarvtan
ok vápns viða. Á hvítum sandi, útskorið líknes-
ki Belja dólgs er brennt ok beljandi glæðurnar
fylla himininn af heift. Þegar trjágoðið hrynr
fram á jorðina sem flaut í oddlá loganda, margir
váru skornir hálsaar ungra sem aldna ok hofuð
þeirra klofin endrkasta élkers botnum Ymis á
ný. Í miðju þess alls ek sé hinn umsnúna hersi
veita sína ræðu hatrsfulla yfir þrælalýð.
Dag reis sinn með sigri
snjallastr faðir allra
- sonr huggaði seggi
sólar hauðrs - af dauða.
Áðr batt flærðar fróðan
fjanda heilagr andi
fast ok fyrða leysti
fremðarstyrkr ór myrkrum.
(Anonymous Poems, Leiðarvísan 31)
Ótraulla má ollu
aldýrr faðir stýra;
sterkr es engr, svát orki
aptrat dróttins krapti.
Gramr skóp hauðr ok himma
hreggranns sem kyn seggja;
einns salkonungr solar
snjallr hjalpari allra.
(Anonymous Poems, Leiðarvísan 29)
Sem straumar af heiðnum vápna læk hefja flæði
sitt í árnar, ek ráfa á ný inn í þann sárgagls
hirðimeið sem forðum. Hvar eru þeir staðir er
ek eitt sinn heima kallaði? Er þat nú sú stund
sem mistilteinn hæfir hinn gofga hugstrandar
hall Baldrs ok drífir þessa alda heima til Rag-
naraka? Eru þetta ljósskipti goða varnenda? Er
þetta stund sú er jarðar hrísla skal bresta ok
brenna bitrlega niðr í svorð? Allar blóðeisur ok
bendagar Krists ok ásmeginna aldinna virðask
nú há einvígi sem spýjandi fleina flóð vellr úr
undirforlum tungum Loka.
English: A Kingom Of Old
A kingdom of old embraces neveren-
ding green and black circles of life and
death. Woods they are called, but green hands
on this lion of stone they are to me. I wander
through dark skies and alighted trees surroun-
ded by dancing Álvar. Where is the peace that
men found once in these endless halls of life?
From afar, swords of Surtr set horizons afla-
me. Guðbrandsdalr it is called, and gods must
have fled from their thrones when I approach
a place that soon shall never be again. My eyes
see countless soldiers of the White Christ play
a dreadful song of singing swords in between
houses, divine Heimdallarvtan and trees. On
white sand, a carved statue of Þórr is set afla-
me and screaming embers fill the sky with rage.
When the wooden god hits the blood-soaked
ground of flames, many young and old thro-
ats are cut and open heads mirror the worlds
of Ymir again. In the middle, I see converted
hersir delivering hateful speaches towards an
enslaved flock.
The most valiant father of all rose from death
with victory on his day; the son of the land of
the sun comforted men. Previously the ho-
nour-strong Holy Spirit bound fast the deceit-le-
arned fiend and released men from darkness.
The altogether precious father is able to govern
everything indefatigably; no one is so strong that
he is able to impede the Lord's power. The king
of the storm-house made land and heavens as well
as the race of men; the excellent king of the hall
of the sun is alone the helper of all.
(Anonymous Poems, Leiðarvísan 29)
As streams of heathen blood start to flow into
rivers, I began to wander again into the woods.
Where are the places that I once called home? Is
this now the time that mistilteinn hits the gra-
ceful heart of Baldr and drives these worlds into
Ragnarok? Is this the twilight of the gods? Is this
the time Yggdrasil shudders and bitterly burns
to the ground? All knives and swords of Christ
and gods of old seem to duel now that sputtering
blood boils out of the plunging tongues of Loki.
5. Um nætr reika skepnr
Un nætr reika skepnr ok finnask á
ýmsum stoðum. Anda dans sem varir
fram undir morgunroða. Opt hefi ek dansað
undir stjórnum með brennandi glóðum nætur-
himinsins. En þessi nótt er ekki sem þær fyrri.
Ókennt hljóð vekr mik upp frá fjarlægum stað
millum fornra skjalda viða. Úr fjarska leiftrandi
birtisk silfrað ljós ok leiðir mik at hellna lundi.
Þar í heyrða ek andana umkringja ljósið tun-
gum talandi 'Óðinn ok munka dróttinn hafa
aldregi verið nærri þínnum niðjum í vanda, ok
bræðr bera sitt lífs grand at hvor oðrum fyr
eigi longu síðan. Þetta svikula hnefa land Loka
hefir ávalt verið nærri þínum niðjum, dansandi
leik Ægis bróðrs ok Ísheims í koldum londum
almdrósar íss. Þitt hyski skal allt leitt í dans
á ný, ok bogafjall brynvarið þinna niðja skal
troða annan veg en þinn!' Blinduð af tindrandi
ljósi er brýst út, hún fellr niðr til jarðar. Er hún
lítr aptr, hún nam sjá biðjandi greipar brjóst er
faðmar hrælinns fors - roðið blóðkerti í lundi.
English: At Night Creatures Wander
At night creatures wander and appear
in various places. A dance of spirits that
lasts until dawn rises. I have danced the dance
often with the stars and burning embers in the
night sky. But this night is different. A stran-
ge sound wakes me up from a distant place in
between trees of old. From afar, a glimmering
silver light appears and guides me towards a
cavernous grove. On it, I hear spirits surroun-
ding the light speaking in tongues. "Óðinn and
the god of the monks have never been close in
your troubled kin, and brothers brought their
death to each other not long ago. The trea-
cherous hands of Loki were always close as
your kin danced the play of fire and ice in cold
lands of swords. Your family is taken into the
same dance again, and the shielded hands of
your kin have striven towards other pathways
than yours!" Blinded by emerging flickering
lights, she falls to the ground. When she looks
back, she sees praying hands that embrace a
blood-daubed sword on the grove.
6. Heiftum skal mána kveðja
Heiftum skal mána kveðja.
(Anonymous Poems, Hávamál 137)
Hoggorma mun hefjask
herði-Þundr á landi;
sjá munu menn á moldu
margar heila borgir;
nú vex blára brodda
beystisullr í fjollum;
koma mun sumra seggja
sveita dogg á leggi.
(Anonymous Poems, Lausavísur 16)
Ræst ramr iotun runar.
Rístum rún á horni,
rjóðum spjoll í dreyra,
þau vel ek orð til eyrna
óðs dýrs viðar róta.
(Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 9)
Ræst ramr iotun runar.
Hrærizk heimar,
hristizk steinar.
Vatn vill leysisk,
villisk disir.
(Vilhjálms saga sjóðs)
Ræst ramr iotun runar.
Þat hefr hverr, er verðr er, loks.
(Anonymous Poems, Málsháttakvæði 25)
English: For Hatred The Moon Should Be Invoked
For hatred the moon should be invoked.
(Anonymous Poems, Hávamál 137)
A hardy warrior will harry here soon; men will
see on the ground many forts of brains; singing
of sword-play will sound in the hills; dew of
blood will dampen many legs
(Anonymous Poems, Lausavísur 16).
A strong giant carved runes.
I carve runes on this horn, redden words with my
blood, I choose words for the trees of the beast's
ear-roots.
(Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 9)
A strong giant carved runes.
Worlds move, stones shake, waters unleashed,
bemused are the Dísir.
(Vilhjálms saga sjóðs)
A strong giant carved runes.
Each gets what he deserves in the end.
(Anonymous Poems, Málsháttakvæði 26
7. Er hin gullna stjarna skýjar slóðar rennr rauð
Er hin gullna stjarna skýjar slóðar
rennr rauð, grænt ok svart rennr þá
landið þat er sér engan endi á. Á þeirri stundu,
hinn dokkvi leikr vígnaðrs stafa brýst út. Á
þeirri stundu, kaldir fýris garmar dansa sinn
dans við anda nætur. Fylgjendr Hvíta Krists
veita mér eftirfor er þeir sjá mik flýja inn í nót-
tina. En þat er um seinan, hún hverfr í heiðna
holl sem er þeim hulin.
Troll kalla mik,
tungl sjot-Rungnis,
auðsúg jotuns,
élsólar bol,
vilsinn volu,
vorð náfjarðar,
hvélsvelg himins.
(Anonymous Stanzas from Snorra Edda,
Stanzas from Snorra Edda 9)
Era auðþeystr,
því at ekki veldr
hofugligr,
ór hyggju stað
fagnafundr
Friggjar niðja
ár borinn
ór jotunheimum.
(Egill Skallagrímsson, Sonatorrek 2)
Ek ráfa um auðlegan stað einsomul. Úr fjarska
heyrast oskrin, en þetta skjól skógar tryggir
mik frá stríðs ræðu þeirri. Silfruð sunna leiðir
mik á veg minn, norðr upp sem Ullar aksþollar
hvísla birtleg orð segjandi frá rigandi hræ-
mána úr ok feigð minna niðja. Fylking sú er í
nóttinni ferðask ok nálgask mik, mér er boðið
at fylgjask at til Yggjar brúðar, hvar sogð er sú
spá af dansandi benvondum brátt rísandi. Til
hjálpar þeirra er ljósið sjá nema um daga, oðru
sinni á ný. Óláfr, þrænda buðlingr í þessu landi
viða. Óláfr, berandi bitra stríða, þeirra er sér
engan endi eigan, Óláfr, dómr nam óma at þings
viðjum þar aldregi fallið hafði fyrr. Er þetta þín
spásýn? Er sá hjálparlaus mergjar salr frá þangs
láði lifandi, er sú biðjandi haukar ferja í lundi-
num lifandi?
Vítt es orpit
fyrir valfalli
rifs reiðiský,
rignir blóði;
nú er fyirr geirum
grár upp kominn
vefr verþjóðar,
er þær vinur fylla
rauðum vepti
Randvés bana.
(Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 1)
Skapt mun gnesta,
skjoldr mun bresta,
mun hjalmgagarr
í hlíf koma.
(Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 3)
Framm skulum ganga
ok í folk vaða,
þar er vinir várir
vápnum skipta.
(Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 4)
Vindum, vindum
vef darraðar
ok siklingi
síðan fylgjum!
(Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 5)
Vindum, vindum
vef darraðar,
þars vé vaða
vígra manna!
Látum eigi
líf hans farask;
eigu valkyrjur
vals of kosti.
(Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 6)
Bróðir, þér lífit, ek finn þat nú bitrleg storm ský
dólgbrands dokkva safnask at Stiklastoðum.
Nú er ógurligt
um at lítask,
er dreyrug ský
dregr með himmi;
mun lopt litat
lýða blóði,
er sóknvárðar
syngja kunnu.
(Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 9)
English: When The Golden Star Of The Sky Turns Red
When the golden stars of the sky
turns red, the never-ending land of
green turns black. At this time, cold winds dance
their dance with night spirits. Followers of the
White Christ chase me as they see me fleeing
into the night. But it is too late, as I vanish into
pagan castles unseen to them.
They call me troll, moon of dwelling-Rungnir,
wealth-sucker of a giant, trouble of the storm-
sun, delightful company of a prophetess, guar-
dian of the corpse-fjord, swallower of the wheel
of the sky.
(Anonymous Stanzas from Snorra Edda, Stanzas from Snorra Edda 9)
Since heavy sobbing is the cause - how hard to pour forth from the mind's root the prize that
Frigg's progeny found, borne of old, from the world of giants.
(Egill Skallagrímsson, Sonatorrek 2)
I wander a forlorn path alone. From afar, scre-
ams are heard, but this wooden shelter protects
me from the speeches of war. The silver sun
guides me on my path up north as trees whisper
bitter words telling of a rain of blood and my kin
to be slain. When I am approached by a band of
night travelers, I am invited to follow to a place
where the prophesised dance of swords will soon
emerge. To help those who see the light of days
a second time again. Óláfr, king in this land of
wood, Óláfr, bringer of bitter wars that never
end. Óláfr, impending doom to trees that never fell before. Is this your prophecy? Is the helpless
hand from the sea alive, is the praying hand from
the grove alive?
A wide warp warns of slaughter, blood rains
from the beam's cloud. A spear-grey fabric is
being spun which the friends of Randvér's slayer
will fill out with a red weft.
(Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 1)
Shafts will splinter, shields shatter, the dog of
helmets devours shields.
(Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 3)
Let us go forth amongst the fighters when our
dear ones deal out blows.
(Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 4)
We wind and wind the web of spears and then
stand by our stalwart king.
(Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 5)
We wind and wind the web of spears, there whe-
re the banners of bold men go forth; we must not
let his life be lost - valkyries decide who dies or
lives.
(Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 6)
Brother, you are alive, I feel it now as the bitter
storm clouds of blood gather at Stiklastaðir.
Now it is gruesome to gaze around as blood-red
skies cover the sky; the heavens will be garish
with the gore of men while the slaughter-war-
dens sing their song.
(Anonymous Poems, Darraðarljóð 9)
8. Um nóttu, mér dreymir þursa þjóðar sjǫt brennandi
Um nóttu, mér dreymir þursa
þjóðar sjot brennandi. Um nót-
tu, mér dreymir reykvallar draum ok lífgalla.
Surtr, þínir niðjar eru nú nærri mér.
Ek fer gneppr af nekkvi,
niðr til Surts ens svarta
sveit í eld inn heita,
sveit í eld inn heita.
(Anonymous Poems, Hallmundarkviða 10)
Harðverkr, Hrøkkvir ok Hástigi,
Hræsvelgr, Herkir ok Hrímgrímnir,
Hymir ok Hrímþurs, Hvalr, Þríngeitir,
Þrymr, Þrúðgelmir, Þistilbarði.
(Anonymous Þulur, Jotna heiti I, 2)
Surtr ok Stórverkr, Sækarlsmúli,
Skorir, Skrýmir, Skerkir, Salfangr,
Oskruðr ok Svartr, Anduðr, Stúmi,
Alsvartr, Aurnir, Ámr ok Skalli.
(Anonymous Þulur, Jotna heiti I, 4)
Ek ríð hesti
Hélugbarða,
úrigtoppa,
ills valdanda.
Eldr er í endum,
eitr í miðju.
(Anonymous Poems, Lausavísur 12)
Svalg áttbogi ylgjar
ógóðr, en varð blóði
grœðir grœnn at rauðum,
grandauknum ná, blandinn.
(Arnórr jarlaskáld Þórðarson, Fragments 2)
Ek sé hræ regn fallandi búka af himni. Brámá-
nar sjá fyrir sér jotunlíkar grinder beina, væng-
jaðar fljúgandi ofan. Ek sé rotnandi valhræ etin
af skorpum tonnum ok elris svita. Ek sé fjolð
kastað til aldslita með valvondum, undvorgum
ok drúpðum dólgráum.
English: At Night, I dream Of A Burned Village
At night, I dream of a burned
village. At night, I dream the
dream of fire and death. Surtr, your kin js close
to me now.
I go stopping for good reason down to the dis-
trict of black Surtr, into the hot fire; district, into
the hot fire.
(Anonymous Poems, Hallmundarkviða 10)
Harðverkr, Hrøkkvir and Hástigi, Hræsvelgr,
Herkir and Hrímgrímnir, Hymir and Hrímþurs,
Hvalr, Þríngeitir, Þrymr, Þrúðgelmir, Þistilbarði.
(Anonymous Þulur, Jotna heiti I, 2)
Surtr and Stórverkr, Sækarlsmúli, Skorir,
Skrýmir, Skerkir, Salfangr, Oskruðr and Svartr,
Anduðr, Stúmi, Alsvartr, Ámr and Skalli.
(Anonymous Þulur, Jotna heiti I, 4)
I ride a horse, with hoarfrost mane and dripping
forelocks, bringing evil; the toarch ends burn, the
middle brings bane.
(Anonymous Poems, Lausavísur 12).
The evil offspring of the she-wolf swallowed
a wound-swollen corpse, and the green surge,
mingled with blood, turned to red.
(Arnórr jarlaskáld Þórðarson, Fragments 2)
I see a rain of dead bodies falling from the sky.
The eyes envisage gigantic skeletons with enor-
mous wings flying above. I see rotted carcasses
consumed by sharp teeth and fire. I see masses
thrown to death by swords, axes, and spears.
9. Ek sá halr at Hóars veðri hǫsvan serk Hrísgrísnis bar
Ek sá halr
at Hóars veðri
hosvan serk
Hrísgrísnis bar.
(Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, Háleygjatal 6)
Hinn, es varp á víða
vinda ondurdísar
of manna sjot margra
munnlaug foður augum.
(Bragi inn gamli Boddason, Fragments 2)
Vel hafið ydrum eykjum
aptr, Þrívalda, haldit
simbli sumbls of mærum,
sundrkljúfr níu hofða.
(Bragi inn gamlí Boddason, Fragments 3)
Enn sem hangatýr fleygði sínum fleygigeyr
um folk, dýr valkastar báru meyjar losnuðu
frá. Sem ek nálgask Stiklastaði, mín dokkvu
hvarma skógar stjornur nema við þúsundir dólg
fangs buri markaða tákni Hvíta Krists. Ek he-
yrði bardagaópið 'Knýjum, knýjum fram Krists
men, Krossins men ok konungs men!' Margr
maðr hóf aðgongu til bardaga sem eigi gat
unnisk. Sem orrustan gegn óteljandi heiðum
bændum brausk út, ek heyrði margan randar
glaums þoll falla sem limar þeirra ok hofuð
voru klofin fljúgandi vandar valsendum. Ok þó,
bardagaópið ómaði um dalinn allann 'Knýjum,
knýjum fram Krists men, Krossins men ok ko-
nungs menn!'
Ort vas Óleifs hjarta;
óð framm konungr - blóði
rekin bitu stól - á Stiklar
stoðum, kvaddi lið boðvar.
Éiþolla sák alla
Jolfuðs nema gram sjalfan
- reyndr vas flestr í fastri
fleindrífu - sér hlífa.
(Þormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld, Lausavísur 23)
Blendusk við roðnar und randar himmi;
Skoglar veðr léku við ský of bauga.
Umðu oddláar í Óðins veðri;
hné mart manna fyr mækis straumi.
(Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, Hákonarmál 8)
Sortnar himinn ok rennr rauðr sem Óláfr þiggr
margan sárelds spora af andstæðum Yggjar
runni. er vængir hrafns ævinnar fylkjask um
Dana hloð, ek heyrði minn bróðr til einskis
fram mæla:
Hoggum hjaltvond, skyggðum,
hœfum rond með brandi,
reynum randar mána,
rjóðum sverð í blóði.
Stýfum Þóri af lífi,
leikum sárt við bleikan,
kyrrum kappa errinn
komi orn á hræ, járnum.
(Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 39)
Enn sem vápnum beitt gegn beittum heiptar-
tungum, gjallar vendir ok hræþolls gandar sku-
lu fylgja eptir þeim fljúgandi hrælinni, ok stin-
ga til jarðar sverðverjandi niða mínum. Regn
ok þrumuský byrgja smám saman sýn Hugins
niðja, ok ek fell til jarðar. Um grímuna, er hvítir
faldar Báleygs brúðar hefja for sína undir silfr
brá himinsins, fer ek ráfandi at dauða dalnum.
Ek hvísla ok sé hvar hinir dauðu nú þegar
skiljask frá lifendum, ok eygji skert skarar
land míns bróðrs á oddbreka grundu. Ek lyfti
hans Hamðis geyr ok byrðar stalli með mínum
straumtungls mjúkstalli ok tek at hvísla bón
fyrir hans lífi ok afkomu. Hans brúnar steinar
opnask ok beinask at mér sem ek mæli. Hann
hvíslar hinstu bæn hins Hvíta Krists svo hann
megi inngongu hljóta í fjorbrots land áðr sjórnir
hans lokask um eilífð. En sem ek lít upp, inn
í dauðadalinn á ný, sé ek hann aðeins ráfandi
stefnulaust inn til skuggalanda. Gullin tár falla
mér úr drjúpandi þungu hofði, er ek geng aptr
að grana mínum, sem ek eitt sinn bauð velko-
minn til Báleygs brúðar.
English: And That Man Wore The Grey Shirt Of
Hrísgrísnir In The Storm Of Hóarr.
And that man wore the grey shirt of
Hrísgrísnir in the storm of Hóarr.
(Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, Háleygjatal 6)
The one who threw the eyes of the father of the
ski-dís into the wide hand-basin of winds above
the dwellings of many men.
(Bragi inn gamli Boddason, Fragments 2)
You have well driven back your draught animals,
cleaver asunder of the nine heads of Þrívaldi, ab-
ove the famous drink-provider of the drinking
party.
(Bragi inn gamli Boddason, Fragments 3)
But as Óðinn threw the spear into the people,
animals of war came loose. As I approach Stik-
lastaðir, my blackened eyes catch thousands of
warriors marked with the sign of White Christ.
I hear the battle cry "Forward, forward, Christ's
men, cross's men, king's men!"
Óláfr's heart was energetic; the king pressed for-
ward Stiklastaðir, rallied his host to battle; steel
weapons inlaid with blood bit. I saw all the firs of
the storm of Jolfuðr shelter themselves except the
leader himself; most were tested in the ceaseless
missile-blizzard.
(Þormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld, Lausavísur 23)
Red colours mingled beneath the sky of the
shield-rim; the storms of Skogul played against
the clouds of shield-rings. Point-waves roared in
the storm of Óðinn; many people sank down be-
fore the tide of the sword.
(Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, Hákonarmál 8)
Many men begin to march towards a battle that
cannot be won. As the battle against countless
pagan farmers emerges, I hear many trees fall as
their branches and heads are cut by flying spe-
ars. And still, the battle-cry echoes through the
valley: "Forward, forward, Christ's men, cross's
men, king's men!" The sky darkens and turns red
as Óláfr receives many a wound from opposing
forces. When wings of darkness approach the
king, I hear my brother cry out in vain:
Let polished hilt-wands clash, strike shields with
brands, test our swords' shine on shields, redden
them with blood. Hack Þórir's life away, play
the pale man foul, silence the troublemaker with
iron, feed eagle flesh.
(Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 39).
But as weapons oppose the fierce tongue of an-
ger, swords and axes follow the lead of the flying
spear and pierce the sword-wielding member of
my kin to the ground. Rain and thunderclounds
start to limit the view of the raven and I fall to
the ground. At nighttime when the white dress
of the earth starts to move under the silver eye
of the sky. I wander below to the valley of the
dead. I whisper and see where the dead already
start to isolate from the living and espay the ruined
body of my brother on the blood ground. I lift his
head and shoulders with my hands and begin to
whisper pleas for his life to survive. His eyes are
opened and fixed on me as I speak. He whispers
a last prayer to the White Christ to grant him
entrance to the land of the dead before he shuts
his eyes forever. But as I look up into the valley
of the dead again, I only see him wander aimless-
ly into a land of shadows. Golden tears fall from
my heavy head as I walk back to my horse I once
welcomed to this world.
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