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Os is the breath That galdor bore Which Earth shaped And onblew soul Awakening life, Ever in wanderlust Vidhrir with need So that He adreed Rode for nine nights With awful outcry Won hidden wisdom: Still restless in roving Sought out Suttung, His adder's ethem Showed in Ale-fell Where whispered words Edged One's draft: On wings to Asgard Thus all skalds Owe to Galderfather; Maddens them: They, with the Dead, To rise on winds His songs from their mouths |
from Allfather's mouth into Ginnungagap from emptiness and Ymir, into Ask and Embla awareness and will. wafting unseen for knowledge ached, to anget the blood-staves, rocked by rime-winds: then uptook them, a help to the heedful. Rognir Ringbreaker slyly shape-shifted, in the awl-hole an opening was made, and wod-bliss gained emptying the vats Odhroerir He bore; their skills at verse His Gale in the drink mounted as steeds are driven by blasts with the Wild Huntsman spilling like Mead |
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