Perhaps when Sigurd
was planning his perfidious war
he should've thought
about the fact that neither
Honey, Yarrow, Alcohol,
Mud and Clay, or Boiled Water
would be able to stop
the infection he contracted from
Brigte the Bucktoothed,
after beheading him in
arrogance, as if his 80 men
had honorably won,
only to find that Brigte had one
last deadly bite for him.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem