Dressed in turf,
grinning with bronze teeth,
eaters of skull,
burners of abbeys
Cold with the blood
of heavy horses,
black-boned and wolf-eyed, as
senseless as a winter tide
cutting the throated air
of stolen girls, a Northern wind
of ill intention,
the rained crowd of dark shapes
that bangs the runed drums.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem