Poem: Hella


My words go down to the depths
White woven into black
the cut strand
the napped thread
the skein unravelled

Not the brilliant, boisterous vigour of
Valhalla, Folkvangr,
the splendid, seething purpose
of the war-claimed dead:

Hers is a quiet voice indeed-
A place of sleep, tranquillity, surcease,
Her vaulted halls give shelter and enfold
the silent dead: released, at rest
in torment or in peace.

Hers is the cauldron of Answers
To questions known, unknown,
shouted in the silence, and unasked.
The keen edge of compassion
Dark mercy
White despair
Wisdom waiting
ever, never, now-

Velsigning, Hela.

(Jennifer Tifft)


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