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Folkish Odinism Dorset

A song to Odin

I sing of the tales of the wanderer

The rider of Yggdrasill

He gave up an eye into Mimir's well

Where deeply, he drank his fill


For nine long nights,

old Hárr, hung he In search of the spoken spell

The runes that he found drew sounds for man And down,

from the tree, he fell


A snake, he slid through Gunnloð's court

The mead of poetry sought

Three sips, and he fled as eagle's wing

By Suttung, was never caught


Two sticks on a beach Hárbarð had found

His brothers heard his call

He gave his own breath and his blood to the wood

And told them of his Hall


Valhalla holds the Einherjar

Who'll fight on Vigrið plain.

As fenrir sinks his fangs to the bone

The life of Odin will wane


Fear not, my kin, of the Ragnarók

For Fimbultýr truly has won

He saw his own death at the end of time

And whispered this to his son

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