A wind-blown cloak with hat drawn down
nears gauntly, passes, and is gone;
a restless wanderer to whom
the road and wilderness are one.
A merging shade among the trees,
the one-eyed master of thin air
wears many masks and changing names,
and when you turn, he isn´t there.
He is the breath of galdr-song,
the whispered magic of the night
when lowly murmurs at the mound
conjure the dead and wake the wight.
He is the air, the empty space
between the gallows and the ground,
the shout of ecstasy and pain
when life meets death and wisdom´s found.
He´s in the battle cries, the yell
of frenzied fighting; then the breeze
that cools the corpses where they fell
to which the Ravens swoop to feed.
He is the ravage of the storm,
he is a blast of bitter wind,
the icy gusts of winter gales
that tear apart, and scour the skin;