Silence, all you sacred kin,
the higher and the lower born.
Allfather, you would have me tell
the oldest things that I have borne.
I remember giants born of old,
who long ago gave birth to me.
In the dawn there was no earth, no sky —
no sand, no wave, no cooling sea.
Would you know yet more, or what?
The seeress sees, the threads are spun.
The Norns have carved into the wood
the fate of all that comes undone.
They raised the land from out the deep,
the sons of Bur shaped Midgard's shore.
An ash I know, named Yggdrasil,
wet with the rime, green evermore.
Brothers will fight and fell each other,
kin will break the bonds of kin.
An axe-age, sword-age, shields are cloven,
a wind-age, wolf-age rushing in.
Hard is the world, the wolves are howling,
before the earth goes under — then
no man alive will spare another,
no oath will hold, no peace again.
Now Garm bays loud at Gnipa's mouth,
the fetters break, the wolf runs free.
Surt rides with fire from the south,
the gods go down, earth sinks beneath the sea.
Would you know yet more, or what?
The sun turns black, the stars burn out.
The smoke and flame leap raging high
and lick the very vault of sky.
Yet she sees rising from the wave
the earth a second time, all green.
The unsown fields will grow again,
a hall more fair than sun is seen.
The gods return, the eagle soars
and there the blessed dwell evermore.