Among those fearsome boreal raiders,
When a warrior falls,
Respects must be paid,
For a warrior to rest easy,
Like a toll to the reaper,
A gift to the hereafter,
Like any legendary fighter has a moniker,
A warriors sword too has a name,
A hero in its own right,
And like any partner would hope for,
It was interred beside him,
The warriors sword was bent double,
Granted a warriors death itself,
And covered in the same graveyard dirt,
To lay still in the same valhalla.
The battle was won,
The dead collected,
And now it was time to revel,
To the longhouse,
The fire burned ochre and coral,
Roaring along with the cheerful ruckus,
The hall was a banquet of cheers and hurrahs,
The skalds sang long into the early hours,
Singing of the exploits of axes and swords both,
Mead ran like amber showers,
The scent of both pork and sweat frothed brashly,
And the sound was a human cacophony of joy,
The triumph of the day was diluted by the sombreness,
Like watered down ale,
The slain would not join them,
But they indulged all the same,
They knew their comrades revelled in Valhalla too,
And would join arms with them again one day.
WorldofHarley 