I have no recollection of how long it’s been.
I do not remember some of the things,
I know I’ve seen.
How long have I wandered among them?
How long did it take me to figure out,
That I’m not human?
They say a son is bound to his fate,
With the chains provided by his father,
And tied to his nature,
With the rope given by his mother.
Did the Trickster God made me what I am?
A son of Loki, mischievous and cunning?
Or was it Allfather, strong and wise,
That gave me these shackles?
I’ve been called a demi-god,
And found divinity in despair.
Bliss cannot take root,
Where the frost runs too deep.
But in a cold heart does a man best his secrets keep.
Yet even a trickster can know the soft touch of spring,
And be swept away by its passionate fragrance.
The wisest of hearts is often laden with grief,
But does still remember,
how to be young and foolishly in love.
I am the lingering autumn,
The explosion of colour in dying leaves,
And the lamenting breeze of a not-so-distant winter.
Were I but human,
Then I might not feel so alone.
Among slain gods and mortals,
Can there only be petrified emotion?
A flower carved in stone?
Could such a flower still be called love?
Could a garden of gravel compare to spring?