Litli Hrutr

The shapeless desolate floor of hell,

Swept by restless wind and sheets of rain, gray

And cold and darting every aimless way.

Bleak mudded fields of a lost carnival.

No eyes were meant to see such a terror,

Crowned in smoke, black ash and gray dust adorned.

No tongue is suited to capture its form,

Try though I might, man’s great foolish error.

Rounding the bend, the smoking mountain

Appears nightmarish as if in a dream,

The place where creation tore at its seam,

Purging its molten contents held within.

Born of distant lands, yet bound for the same,

Two lonely strangers watch the dying flames.