As four sons carried their deceased father,
And placed his battle-scarred body,
Atop an unlit pyre,
I began to realise something ~
About these perplexing Norsemen.
They shed brief tears as the pyre is lit,
Mourn while the flames still dance,
They’re not a grieving people,
By our standards measured,
Yet it is clear that their loss,
Is felt with equal intensity.
Will I ever understand them,
And the Norse intimacy with death herself?
“Weep not for him, south-lander,”
Said the eldest when he saw my weeping visage.
“The Valkyries are taking him to Valhalla,
Where he’ll feast with the gods,
Alongside the worthy chosen,
And our ancestors.”
“Mourn not his passing, Priest,”
Said the youngest.
“Instead hounor him by remembering his deeds.
He is with the gods now,
And even happier than you or I.”