Halls which once hosted the valiant dead,

Asylum where heroic souls have tread.

Crumbled now to dust and pitiful wrecks,

O'er thrown by the chaos that Fenris bred.

Little, if any, of Asgard is left;

Old Midgard now teems with murder and theft;

Vanaheim's thrones, which now scoundrels possess,

Emanates their powers, no longer blest.

Solitude, nostalgia! I cry, bereft.

Even in the start, their fate has been set:

Mighty ones doomed to die but never rest.

I sing these odes alone, to realms unkept.

Left among gods, the bard's but a poet,

Yggdrasil's roots have now become its crest.