By: Bryan Ricardo Marini Quintana
In the feast’s closing ceremony, giants are paraded in a procession, dragging with trembling feet a gargantuan urn up the hill to Valhalla. Inside resides Odin’s paramount possession, the prized Mead of Poetry. A once formidable adversary of the Aesir gods has been subdued to cold chains, tortured into feeble slaves who thirst with broken lips and harsh throats for a sip from the magical drink that imbues the soul with the skill to sing. While the All-Father mindlessly waddles in his hall, spilling the blessed gift every time he boasts of Asgard’s triumph, the giants gaze miserably as their only remedy is to swallow saliva. Thereafter, Odin’s host becomes drunk with him, as they are intoxicated by delusions of grandeur, misusing the magical drink instead of composing a melody. A wave of uproars echoes in Valhalla when the Aesir gods recite vile verses in mockery, challenging each other to behold who can perform the foulest poetry. Left with a vase nearly empty, Mankind struggles to sustain their identity and attain their destiny. In ridicule, the All-Father laughs at Midgard from his battlements in Asgard, amused by the misery of his subjects who lack the Mead of Poetry to compose a lovely harmony.
Outside the Gallery of Gallantry stands guarding Odin’s terrible legions, a hundred thousand faceless corpses bound to the sway of their master. They were once men of flesh and bone, with a mind, heart, and soul. In their previous lives, they could ponder, feel, and express being. After meeting death valiantly, their flickering flame has been smoked out in the confines of Valhalla, where they lack wisdom, love, and song. Now, they’re obedient soldiers who’re rotting into mindless, heartless, and soulless cadavers whose thoughts and actions are dictated by the All-Father. Their hunger and thirst are quenched with an endless stream of pork from the boar Saehrimnir and wine from the goat Heidrun, confining them to an unconscious and gratified state who have forgotten their role as men.
Under the guidance of false gods such as Odin, Mankind has been persuaded by fear and desire in their search for meaning. They’ve played with all manner of perversion, confounding themselves with power and pleasure. Subsequently, the Einherjar trudge through in their eternal slumber when they’re called upon to reclaim their identity, losing all wisdom and knowledge to forge a destiny. The civilization erected by wise and vigorous men has fallen into decay due to the imprudence and frailty of the youth, who’ve succumbed to the guise of a benevolent Lord of Gifts, revealing himself to be the treacherous Lord of Deceit. In Midgard, Mankind has become twisted into a new breed of Miserable, Impartial, and Tyrannical Men who pull the masses from one end of the rope to the other as they stumble upon the precipice that leads to their damnation.
The All-Father’s winged warriors oversee this age of watchful peace, spreading their splendor and horror to Mankind. They descend from Asgard to quell revolts that oppose their master, brewing petty quarrels between the kings of men to keep their domains divided. From these endless squabbles, Odin fills his hall in Valhalla with brother slaying brother in an undying cycle, as Valkyries claim their souls to quench his hungry belly that scours the face of the earth for fresh meat to satiate his stockpile. Without a spirit to compose a song, they heed the Lord of the Slain’s command, pitting kingdom against kingdom, host against host, king against king, and man against man. Now, the civilization of their forefathers is lost in the wells of time and space, leaving them bereft of composing a melody as they cling to misery, impartiality, and tyranny to give their lives a semblance of meaning.
The once honorable duty of bearing the wings of a Shield-maiden as custodians of harmony is now a sentence of oblivious servitude. With their purpose twisted, Valkyries soar over the realms of men as ill omens of foreboding doom, beckoning that judgment day looms closely. Their lustrous shields and spears have corroded and bloodied in their service. Those glittering wings with a tint of frosty snow that soar in the sky’s clouded sea have lost their pure color. These have darkened into pale grey, whose feathers blot out the golden touch of the sun, leaving only the moon’s misty glow as a token of dismay.
From the battlements of Asgard, a flock of Valkyries flies by to Valhalla, witnessing the feast of the Aesir gods, who abuse their foes, trick their allies, and misuse the blessed gift of the Nine Worlds. A single-winged warrior is repulsed by the sight of Odin’s host sloppily spilling the Mead of Poetry. After seeing the madness of her master, she breaks away from her flight and sails against the tide of her sister Shield-maidens. Defiantly, she soars through the black fumes that sprout from the All-Father’s forges, endlessly fashioning armaments for the coming of Ragnarok. Above the blinding smoke, the Valkyrie beholds the foul craft of the Aesir gods, longing to remember her name and confront her fate. The Nameless Shield-maiden hides amidst the dark clouds with the paleness of her wings, popping her head out to gaze at Midgard’s tragedy.
There, she weeps inconsolably, casting away her shield and spear after contemplating her role as a pawn of Asgard’s cruelty. She witnesses the self-destructive nature of Mankind, who become architects of their own suffering. The Valkyrie is overcome with a feeling of powerlessness, pondering in defeat that the realms of men will never awake to realize they’ve been chained under Odin’s command. Suddenly, she gleams as an incandescent beacon of luminous white, thinking she could compose a melody to rouse them from this strife. However, her spirit falters upon mere mention, doubting her skill to sing an alluring harmony. She beholds the Gallery of Gallantry again in agony, mourning the final droplets spoiled on the floor from the Mead of Poetry. Thereafter, the Nameless Shield-maiden is bolstered to defy the rule of the All-Father with a renewed purpose to compose a melody, lamenting the decline of Mankind’s civilization.
Canto I
Where have the Bold Warriors sailed?
Where are their deeds?
Where have the Stout Builders sailed?
Where are their labors?
Where have the Wise Sages sailed?
Where are their stories?
Where has the Race of Men sailed?
Where are their souls?
Alas the age of heroes has come to pass
Alas for the wisdom and knowledge of their forefathers
They’ve played with power and pleasure
They’ve succumbed to fear and desire
Where have the Children of Adam sailed?
Where is their sense of meaning?
Where have the Children of Eve sailed?
Where is their sense of being?
Canto II
Above in Asgard, the Aesir gods have seized the Mead of Poetry
Below in Midgard, Mankind cannot compose a melody
In disdain, a child tosses the skill to sing from his caring forefather
In mockery, the child erects a monument in reverence to the cruel All-Father
Who will quench his search for destiny to find meaning?
None but the Aesir gods will bathe him with a false identity of being
Canto III
Among the lost Children of Jehovah, I mourn for Miserable Men
They’ve refused to carry the burden of responsibility
By foolishly attempting to escape destiny
In a struggle of futility to thwart the certainty of mortality
In Midgard, Miserable Men renounce pondering life’s streams
Opting to slumber for eternity rather than awake to the horror of consciousness
They’re washed away by the currents into an abyss of meaninglessness
Canto IV
Among the lost Children of Adam, I grief for Impartial Men
They’ve disregarded the skill safeguarded in ancient institutions
By judging, sentencing, and burning the civilization of their forefathers
In a circus trial by the mob who slander the ability to differentiate virtues and vices
In Midgard, Impartial Men please the crowd by losing their individuality
Ceding to repeat unquestionably the slogans of a mob mentality
They lose all sense of morality to accommodate everyone in society
Canto V
Among the lost Children of Eve, I weep for Tyrannical Men
They’ve twisted individuals into oblivious followers
By claiming to possess every remedy for their troubles
In a world of demagogues, the state decrees their thoughts and actions
In Midgard, Tyrannical Men impose their flawed ideology
Devising monstrous stratagems to be worshiped as a deity
They sink civilization with them when their devices endeavor fruitlessly
The Western Voyager 