It's that time of year again: Hazel catkin candy!

Recently I noticed that the hazel catkins are in full swing, and so I went out to get myself some for candy, tea and maybe whisky.  

Got a full bag of hazel catkins.  

I took 250g of butter, melted it on low heat, put in 250g of powdered sugar, stirred it in with a whisk and added the catkins.  Put in another 100 g of powdered sugar and added 200ml of water.  Reduced to a brown gooey texture, while constantly stirring on low heat. 

I put the warm catkins aside to dry to a crispy texture.  

Hazel catkins have been used as natural remedies for quite a long time.  They are reputed to have a diuretic and adstringent effect and to enhance blood circulation.  They are sweat-inducing and can be used to fight mild fevers, enhance bile flow and help with liver and gall bladder problems.  If you suffer from allergic reactions to hazel, I strongly advise you not to use it.  

In Celtic folklore, the tree is connected with wisdom, poetry and divination. According to Damian McManus: Irish Letter names and their kennings, Eric 1991, the Ogham name is Coll, with the Kenning connotations "fairest tree", "tree of sustenance" and "friend of nutshells". In poetic mythology, the nine hazels of fine mast at the well of wells of the Boyne nourish the Salmon of Knowledge.  Hence it is the tree of sustenance.  

This is a song by my lovely magic troll, Tríona nì Erc, you might enjoy.  

Stay sane, and until next time!

 

The xiphos concept and Satsujinken-Katsujinken

Okay, you have watched this video already...;-), and it´s just for starters. This project is more and more fascinating me.

In Myles Mulkeys poem about the sword forged by Petr Florianek for the exhibition "The sword-form and thought", taking place at Klingenmuseum Solingen, there is a strong emphasis on the civilizational aspect of defending the mead hall, and thusly the hearth fire. In an unfathomed world of wild woods and mountains, wild animals and creatures that are less than man but more than beast, of Evil and savage beings lurking at the forest´s edge, respite is only found in the "comfort of home and kin/ the house of music/ song of lyre / the gleaming joy of bright hearth fire".

In Beowulf this respite is assaulted by exactly this representant of the savage forces of the wild, Grendel, a being that is more and less than human, belonging to the wild. In classical Arthurian romance from Chretien de Troyes to Wolfram von Eschenbach, there is always a kind of double - loop - structure with the Arthurian court serving as an anchor point; the hero comes from the civilized world to the court to venture (aventiure: what comes to the hero) out into the wild. The wild is a place where giants, hermits, fairies and trolls live. Grendel belongs to that sphere. He is a troll, so to say, even if he is not called that name in Beowulf, for it is a Northern Scandinavian word. There is a strong etymological connection of the relatively modern word "troll" to the ancient word "þræll", thrall. A Thrall was a member of society which had not the same rights as Jarl or Karl. In some cases, the þræll slaves captured on raids, but it is almost safe to say that even more so the þræll were formerly free men who were sentenced to thraldom due to debts or other transgressions against the laws of society. þræll had next to no human rights whatsoever, and they were very much subject to the capriciousness of their masters. Some few of them might even have led a life with not as many hardships and could become free again by working hard, but more often than not they were just like slaves. They had no right of bearing arms, severe restrictions towards housing, food, and even sexuality and could be killed without further ado. It is safe to say that some of them preferred to hide in the woods to become outlaws. They were "skóggángr" not because of a sentence, but to remove themselves from the hardships of thraldom. This trade is of very much questionable bargain, for they had to flee the company of their fellow humans and had no part in human society anymore. This made them very dangerous to human society; deprived of their humanity, they were no longer obliged to follow the laws of man. Their life must have been even harder than that of þræll in society, and despair must have been their constant companion.

Lacking weapons to succeed in survival in the wilderness, they either had to develop skills and prowess or steal from the society they had to abandon, or both. This is one aspect of the "troll" that endangers society. Even in modern internet language, a troll is someone who defies the cultural consent, e.g. in internet forum platforms. But there is more to the troll than just the sociological and historical aspect. Trolls were associated with sorcery (gáldr) and witchcraft (seidhr), so much in fact, that some curses worked in an indirect way; to curse someone you had to insult the trolls in his name to inflict their revenge upon that person.

Given that some þræll in fact were "imported" from Sápmi, and enslaved from the indigenous Sáami peoples with a strong background in shamanism (which in fact, is the very essence of galdr and seidhr, as in divination, the lore of potions and rituals to reach the other world), it can be argued that this might give further evidence to this theory. Also, the Sáami people are genetically distinct in the whole of the North and thusly look different, too. So there is another aspect: A xenophobic impulse to demonize an obviously different kind.

This historical ground might have paved the road for the mythological spice. In Norse mythology, there was the antagonist race of the Gods, the more primeval giants, powerful, but demonic forces. The Gods were the ones civilizing the wilderness by building Asgard, Midgard and Utgard and the nine worlds, but they were not responsible for the world tree, Yggdrasil, nor what lay beneath. The worlds of man and Gods were constantly threatened from outside: In the Iarnwíd (iron wood) around Asgard (and Midgard), out (út) side the circle or orchard (gárdr) there lived the jótunar (jótunn) or thursar, the giants and trolls of old. Given that mythological grammar always takes place in "illo tempore" (THAT time) in contrast to the "haec tempore", the actual time and in "illo loce" (THAT place), myth always mirrors reality and the other way round. What now becomes a most intriguing aspect of this process is that this is not a one-way street, and follows fractal logic. So what happens in "illo tempore" sees a manifestation in actual time. Along these lines it was possible to build the actual Babylon by driving an iron pole into the soil to fix the would-be, potential Babylon to the earth of every day life by "nailing the Tiamat (snake of Chaos)" (Mircea Eliade). So Asgard is a symbol coinciding the act of building Asgard in the wild by tricking the frost giants out of it with the act of building a home in a hostile environment. Now comes into play what I would like to call a dualistic coincidentia oppositorum; for troll and god are two aspects of the same process or state of being; one, representing the untamed, hostile wilderness and the other the order of human society. I personally believe that troll and god are psychological aspects united in one.

Now let us conclude: The troll represents the untamed wilderness. In a world where wilderness reigns supreme, this is a threat to mankind. By myth and by magic, by cunning and craft, man strives to preserve "the gleaming joy of bright hearth fire". The troll, who stands outside of human society, threatens the delicate balance and therefore has to be extinguished.

I recently read a most excellent article on the martial arts and zazen concept of Satsujinken-Katsujinken. Roughly translated from Japanese this means "a sword of life-a sword of death" or "the sword that kills, gives life". This is somewhat difficult to understand. In short, it is exactly what Myles says in his poem:

"(...)the one respite
Found by men
Is the comfort of home and kin;
The wooden walls
Of carven hall
Of roof and rafters raised up tall,
The house of music,
Song of lyre,
The gleaming joy of bright hearth fire.
(...)
Bold heroes must
Make safe that place
Holding monsters in grim embrace.
With bare hands
And their wills alone,
They could not hope
To return home.
And so the smiths
Did labour long
To craft the lute
Of raven song;
They forged a sword
And clad it in
Moonlit silver and ember gems.(...)" (Myles Mulkey, Béado-Léoma, 2015)

The ritualized centre of the "gárdr" was the hall, the "house of music", but this was not all about this building. In the hall there was spoken justice, tales of lore were told, tradition was kept, alliances were forged. It was the very centre of civilization, and civilization was crucial for the survival of the kin and families. It was crucial for life. In Beowulf, Grendel kills every guest of Hrothgar, the prince of the Danes. So he threatens life, as the trolls and the creatures of the night in Myles´poem and in the concept of Petr´s sword. Satsujinken is the sword that kills. In order to preserve life, the opponent, the creatures of the night, the demons of the wild, have to be killed off, fended off, so that life can be defended. Thusly, the sword that kills, preserves civilization, and thusly, gives life.

But a sword that kills to preserve life, still kills. The question in Zazen now is, is it legitimate to kill 100 bad guys (which would be legitimate in that line of thought) in order to preserve the lives of 10 innocent people? Or, is it legitimate to sacrifice 10 innocents to preserve the lives of 100? And, what is Good and what is Evil?

Let me now look at it differently. Nowadays, the story just goes the other way round. We have one of the most complex civilizations in history. Crops are genetically manipulated, there is little wilderness left. Many wild animals died out because we "fended them off", "defended ourselves", killed them. Wolf and bear and birds of prey have been routed because they endangered our civilizational asset. But the scale is turning; by doing so we completely messed up the ecological balance. Even the sword, which was replaced first by the gun and then industrial killing machines, machine guns, tanks, rockets, now is belonging to a subconscious part, to the wilderness we strove to rout. But killing this off only leads to more killing, and we killed the stories and tales of lore and the mead hall together with wolf and bear and troll.

Wolf and bear and troll were feared in ancient times, but also respected in the early period of civilization, when the mead hall was an actual respite. Later on, killing them became a sport. Christianity gave many princes and champions the legitimation to rout what did not fit into civilization; head prizes were paid for the killing of wolf, bear, man and "troll". Everyone and everything that or who did not fit into the gárdr, had either to bend to fit the scheme or was killed. This is not necessarily due to the actual gospel, but more often than not might have its roots in the fact that most people were illiterate and just sought a legitimation to live out their violent mindset or even their fear, as it is still the case. The "go forth and multiply" and the assumption of power over the Earth in my book was never meant to be THIS way. But the wine is spilled, the deed is done, the wench is pregnant, so to say. The sword, that much is safe to say, no longer is the symbol of our time. It is tank, and whip, and credit card. The sword has been discarded into the wilderness in the back of our minds, together with cross and Bible, tale of lore, wolf and bear and troll and fiend, God and Giant, magic, even science. Mammon reigns supreme and the end justifies the means. Grey Gods rule from the top story of temples of glass, gold and concrete, grey gods of their own devices decide the ins and outs of life and death, with scarce mercy and with jaundiced eyes they survey this world for bargain. They calculate loss and bargain, and nothing more. They are not evil, but they stand opposed to the concept of good and evil. They are not black nor white but strive to bring an eternal grey. They do not mean any harm. They destroy life in itself.

The bad news is-they are us.

What we have done is irreversible. We have destroyed an entire world of life while we thought to preserve life. The question is not who is the bad guy anymore, but when or where we were going amiss.

I personally would say that we have to accept that there are two worlds, and both are absolutely necessary for our survival. To wield the sword that gives life we have to accept there has to be a balance. We have to be troll and warrior, fiend and defender at the same time. We have to be balanced ourselves. We have to be coincidentia oppositorum, sic et non, yin and yang.

It is hard to understand, but it´s time to lay down the sword. It´s time to take up the sword and fight to the death. It´s time to kill and hate and love and give life. It´s time to inflict wounds and heal wounds-but it is also time to inflict only those wounds we can heal, to take life only if we can give or have given life. The hands of a king are the hands of a healer...

Phrases at first glance, well, and contradictory ones. To understand this we have to realize exactly what we have done; and I personally have the impression that our mistake was to kill off ALL of the wilderness. With no wilderness there can be no respite, without darkness there can be no light. At least humans cannot tell the difference. Without being able to tell the difference, there is indifference. Indifference is a grey void. So, by killing off all the wilderness around us and in ourselves, we also killed the gleaming joy of the hearth fire, and we extinguished even the roaring dragon fire of the forge, and the sometimes violent flame of poetry and knowledge gained thereof. Without all of this, there can be no hero, no sword, no song, no smith, no birth, no life.

So we can assume that this our cherished civilization threatens the very centre of life. Paradoxically, it should not be called "uncivilization", for it is civilization that threatens itself. We need Satsujinken-Katsujinken in order to restore it. Civilization is not an enemy. The parody we have made of it is one, but there is no one to blame but ourselves.

My personal line of thought along the lines of trying to solve the problem is what I like to call "Skóggángr" (hey, I have a midlife crisis, so I must be allowed to found a sect of my own, don´t I ? *ggg*). What I mean by this is, that ancient knowledge learned by tale of lore is not dead. It is alive in fairy tales and sagas and manuscripts from the medieval age, in children and old people, in love and lust and joy, in the forest and the green, in traditional bushcraft and housekeeping and homesteading and martial arts, in crafts and arts. We just have to learn to live anew. This goes as far as learning to walk naturally again, to eat food we are made to eat, to wear clothing that does exactly what it should, namely clothe one and not tie one down like a webbing load restraint assembly, to speak, and dream, and sing.

Béado-Leoma not only is made for trolls. It´s made for ourselves. It is a chance. Xiphos is the "piercing light", the motto of the exposition. Four swords have been forged. Four swords were born from fire and the dark soil. Four piercing lights shine in the darkness. But five fingers hold the handle of the sword-birth, life, love and death. Where is the thumb?

Jake Powning found the words of Ursula K. Le Guin:

Only in silence the word,
only in dark the light,
only in dying life:
bright the hawk’s flight
on the empty sky. (Ursula K. Le Guin)

for his beautiful sword he made for the expo. To me, it hits the nail on the head.

Only in silence the word means to me, that while we have access to myriads of therabits (and pieces, pun intended), and there´s always someone talking, we cannot hear the word anymore. We need silence in order to hear what matters, in the world, but more so in ourselves. We have to listen closely to the wilderness within and the bright hearth fire, to troll as well as god.

Only in dark the light: Anyone seen the stars in a big city recently? In order to see the stars, we need a dark sky without light pollution. Working for a city marketing I am well acquainted with the term "territories and spaces of fear", meaning dark places where Mr. Boogeyman MIGHT lurk. In order to prevent Mr.Boogeyman from doing us harm, we light everything with glaring lights, to an extent that we destroy the ecosystem with it, shortly said and vastly abbreviated. But the dark still remains, and if the lunatic Mr. Boogeyman can´t shoot you in the dark, he will just as well do so in the light. We are weak, and instead of getting stronger, we bend the world to our desires. But we pay dearly for that, for we can´t see the stars anymore.

Only in dying life: Oh, we play at being immortal. Our medical science is vastly superior for those who can afford it. We pay for it, and our doctors are bought and paid for; but they market their products, and we pay with fear. Will that virus kill me? Will that flu be my end? Better take some antibiotics... blimey, doesn´t work anymore, virus has adapted to it. Of course, that´s not all there is, and if I am sick, I visit a doctor, if I cannot help myself anymore. But fear is our constant companion. Death walks with us every day of our lives. It gives valuable council, but fear makes us constanly gibber on endlessly like "bibbybabbabubbu" in order to silence death. The bad news is, it won´t shut up just because we want to. And so we fear even more.  And our betters tell us in order to be deprived of all fear we just have to abandon our dreams and beliefs and passions and affections, for they are dangerous, and we confuse sedation with peace.

Freedom is not being without laws. Freedom never is free. It is lonesome, and there is an empty sky to be crossed. But only then we can live our truest light. Only then we can forge our inner sword, our dragon´s spine, our pillar of fire, our tree of life. Only then can we fly.

Only then are we legitimate to take up the sword. Yeah, we WILL fall. We will do worse than we intended. We will make mistakes, we ultimately WILL die. We will be sad. We will be lonesome, and bitter, and hurt. We will be faced with our dark side.

But the hero walks into the darkness wielding the flame. He wields the flame of life even when he deals death. There is nothing simple anymore, and in order to find your appropriate master these days, you have to be a master yourself. But walking the way has no alternative. And things will find themselves, and everything will fall into its place. Oh, no, it will not necessarily be all good. But there will be stories-if we tell them. There will be drawings and paintings-if we paint them. There will be wild love-if we live it. There will be stars-if we dare to walk out alone into the night.

And, maybe a long time from now, we will find a tiny spark of the hearth fire beneath the ashes of grey, and maybe with our flesh and bone we can kindle it anew.

I wished it should not have been in my time, but it is idle to wish. What I wish is without relevance.

But still, there is this spark waiting for me.

Isn´t it all a great adventure?;-)

Beado-Léoma, the Battle-light - Swordsmiths, wordsmiths and museum expositions

We are currently working on a very, very fascinating project. Petr had come visiting recently, and we had good fun together feasting and drinking and talking bullshit ;-) (Thanks for totally screwing our minds, Petr!:-) We´ll never get that song out of our heads, and we see mushrooms everywhere...*ggg*) as well as some great in-depth discussions. But what was most intriguing to us that we had the chance to see one of his most recent works of art.

This is the sword beado - léoma (Anglo-Saxon for Battle - Light), a sword in the line of the most intriguing epic poem Beowulf, and a very eloquent incarnation of many Kenningar for the hero himself. For instance, the animal on the pommel, is a bear that stands for the name of the warrior, for "Beowulf" means "bee-wolf", hence a bear. The bees on guard and pommel stand for honey and mead which is served in the hall Héorot, the mead hall of king Hrothgar, where the drama takes place. The sliding piece for the belt on the sheath is carved in the shape of a mead hall with shingles. Those shingles stand for civilization, a roof, that provides warmth and protection from the wild things. The garnets stand for the glow and warmth of the hearth fire.

Now it all becomes wonderfully fascinating, for Myles Mulkey, bladesmith, swordsmith, author and poet had written a beautiful poem that in my opinion reflects the atmosphere best. It will be featured in the catalogue of the exhibition, together with a translation. You can get it here as soon as it´s printed.

The magic troll and myself guided Petr to Solingen and helped him deliver the sword for the oncoming exposition "The Sword - Form and Thought", which will take place at Klingenmuseum Solingen from the 26th of September to 28th of February 2016.

And while he was not so sure the museum would like the fact he had a poem to go along with the sword, it turned out very well. Dr. Grotkamp - Schepers, head director of the museum, was quite enthusiastic about the sword and poem. In fact, it was great to see all of the staff being extremely motivated around the exhibition, so much in fact that some of them even cancelled their holiday to be able to see the first sword arriving and having a chat with Petr. The only problem was the translation of the poem...

So we offered our help;-).

For free.

Bummer, I hear you say, you are a bunch of punks, what, for free? Nothing´s free, and you could use the money!

 

Let me explain this, for this is not how this thing works. It is not about earning money in this case. It is about being part of a modern hero´s tale. It is about being swordsmith and wordsmith. It is the gathering of the hosts, a muster of wizards and scholars, and it is a very unique thing taking place, something that is far more than "just" an exhibition. Mrs. Grotkamp - Schepers is a dyed-in-the-wool scientist, but I daresay she feels it herself, as does everyone at the museum, as does any smith and poet involved.

 

And for us two it is an opportunity to give the grey god a right kicking up the spine. He takes reign over the souls and lives of men in our society, befouling our everyday life. But this sword and the poem - and the other swords in the exhibition are a whisper from the dawn of time. It is maybe a bit bold to say it is something sacred happening here, but to me it feels exactly like it. But it is nothing like a fancy or a dream. The exhibition is centered around the topic of the xiphos, an iron age secondary Greek weapon. All of the swords in the exhibition are made around this topic. The name means "piercing, penetrating light". 

 

In Myles´ poem civilization is represented by simple but crucial things. The roof of the mead hall, family and kin, the hearth fire, mead and food. The sword is a representant of these things, and, more so, defends them.

 

The sword that Petr has created is a brutal weapon. Its balance is willingly nothing like eloquent. It is straightforward and front-heavy, made to chop off the limbs of an unarmed adversary, such as an evil spirit referred to as "trolls" or "thurses" threatening those simple things of civilization, not for eloquent fencing, but for fighting with brute force.

 

But the culprit is, it´s made to defend, not attack. It represents the hearth fire. In its glow the new life is born, tales are told, and it gives light through the darkness of winter. The hero himself has to wield it. In order to overcome the threat he has to become the threat himself, a brute force (Eliade). He gains supernatural power, but in every hero tale there is a point where he is confronted with his own mistakes, and Germanic lore is full of tragic heroes. But the threat is to be overcome, and the individual does not count.

 

It is the simple things the hero fights for. It is not 300% increase of gain p.a., not the fourth TV and the third laptop. In a world of darkness the hearth fire becomes crucial for survival. Literally speaking, we live in a world that is - in a metaphorical way, of course - not so different from the world of Beowulf. It is threatened by dark things lurking in the twilight, just outside our perception. What remains is the metaphorical hearth fire to be protected, the mead hall and the birthing place as simple things that make our world. It has not changed, but has been obscured by darkness and too much light, by mist and nonsense notions. And it is a sad metaphor becoming true that the bees are dying out.

 

To us piercing light is shod unto the mead hall. To us the tale and the warmth and the company, bees, honey, mead and fire have a place. And the sword should defend it with brutal force.

 

Piercing light is secondary in that it is a secondary weapon, and in that it is the last-ditch resort of the warrior, it requires an all-or-nothing effort, speaking within the confines of the metaphor. And also speaking in the confines of the symbol, piercing light is what we need in order to analyse the threat that befouls our society.

 

We have to give it all or nothing to defend the mead-hall and its hearth fire.

 

Ask again why we do it for free.;-)

 

Cheers to Petr and Myles, lift your swords up high and shake them like wild boars!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

A thing for escapism - More thoughts on the film "Mara und der Feuerbringer" and a resolve

Okay, so you all know it. We all are faced with a world full of war and greed and hate, and there seems to be not much hope at all left. Every day in the media, in the web, we are faced with new catastrophes and new forces of Evil trying to take the oh-so-superior Western civilisation to hell. If you read the newspaper, you have to hold it straight up to keep the blood from dropping out of the lines. Once the communist regimes of Russia (and the Russian people) were the personification of Satan, and we were told to hate them, now it´s the Muslims. Good jobs are scarce, and if you don´t have one, you are subject to exploit and abuse or even worse. Kids should not play, but learn in order to get a good career going in order to "survive". Survival is estimated by income. The middle class is practically non - existent. You are either upper class or antisocial (a quote from a head of corporation I had the doubtful pleasure to meet). Bad news pepper your mind every day, every minute, every second. It is not a place for dreams, this world, isn´t it? Is it really?

A very strange thought occurred to me, and a very strange observation I have made. I meet many people from the "upper class". In fact, many of my former mountainbike team are actually members of the upper class. At work, I work with upper and middle management people in business promotion. I noticed something very strange. Many of them get dumb.

What I mean is, those people should be well educated and sharp - witted, and they actually were once. But many of them seem to degenerate, to a degree that some of them are not even able to fulfil  the least requirements of social structures. They are still able to maintain their life, because they live in a structure that degenerates with them, but, judging from an outside point of view, their intellectual capacity is deteriorating fast. This observation is not even exclusive to myself. I would be glad to pass it off as a hallucination of a guy that encounters a bit of a hardship sometimes and has many things in his mind to work on, to be diplomatic;-). But this observation has a strong backing in scientific research, so much in fact that it is a commonplace. It is a well-used theory that our intensive use of computer aids and comfort add to this degeneration of our mind. Now this could be just another kind of bad news, and many might get into bed, draw the blanket over their eyes and not get up again, and I´d be lying if I said I could not understand them.

But I also made another observation. For I met other people also. Different people. Often people who have to work extremely hard to just so make a living for themselves and their families. They don´t have a good career, or maybe some of them actually do, for this observation is not exclusive to people without a decent job. But they have something in common. They are sharp of wits, socially and intellectually competent, and many of them are what many so - called heads of society would call a hazy-eyed dreamer.

 Reenactors, artists - mostly deviant artists - bushcrafters, preppers, Pagans, Christians, Muslims. People who call themselves druids or heroes. Musicians living just so from the extraordinary music they make with a guitar consisting mainly of holes, duct tape and splintered wood. I think of Rhobynn Byrdd, a ranger and druid and musician the magic troll and I met once in Marburg. He sat there, all clad in green, barefoot with the aforementioned guitar and his clothes and the shoes standing near his battered backpack held together with twine. Everything he had was beaten, used and battered, he took a swig from abottle of cheap beer, and yet he did not look like a bum. On his guitar case there was a silver badge of the tree of life, and when he sang, he transformed the hallway into a concert hall, or better yet, the Golden Halls of Lothlórien or the halls of Rivendell. We bought a CD from him, and he traded in some dreams and weird tales and we talked a huge pile of shit. But that wasn´t all of it. When I first read the "Lord Of The Rings" by J.R.R. Tolkien, I had the same impression getting to know him when  the author described the first encounter of the wayfaring hobbits with Aragorn, Arathorn´s son. I am well aware that Rhobynn´s life is not at all romantic. And this is the dimension of truth behind it all: For if you really try to FEEL the figure of Aragorn, Arathorn´s son, you notice that he isn´t romantic, either. And Rhobynn is not a figure in a book. He is not a fantasy novel. But he refuses to give up his hope and dream. He stubbornly clings to being a "ranger". He stubbornly clings to his dream, even in a damp tent in a November rain with little to eat and no warmth at all. And this makes him a real - world hero. He fights enemies of mankind we cannot even agnize and that would "make our hearts freeze" could we take them for real. Rhobynn´s art and prowess are extraordinary. He is a story become true.

He lives in a dream.

I have met many people like him in the last few years. Many of these experiences I made with the love of my life by my side, and I cannot tell how grateful I am for that. And, talking of which, I have realized that we are like them. We are dreamers, yap. We care about all those people suffering in Nepal now, but then we know that the elders of the Inuit tell the hunting grounds become strange. The North pole has shifted, so they say. Shamans and dreamers report that something is changing, and many of them tell of something very grey and dark on the rise. Sounds like a fantasy novel? They also say the earth will shift. Nepali Bön priests tell of the serpent that is preparing either for war or shifting in its sleep. Maya and Aztec astronomers announced the rise of the winged serpent. Myth. Magic. Hazy-eyed dreams. But we ask, why has the earth trembled? In what direction has it risen or fallen? We ask the signs, and many call us cold - hearted to ask these questions. But we ask because we want to know how to give hope the way Rhobynn gave us. We are druids and tellers of stories.

There are many like us, and please forgive me if I cannot be too objective. It is just a feeling I have. I see the children of reenactors, and I work with the  children of the middle management. The  middle management kids often are to be called as bad an attribute as retarded.

One 9 - year -old I worked with and who was absolutely normal according to the interview I did with the parents was not only far too small for the age (I first mistook him for a 4-year-old), but severely motorically challenged, so far in fact that he was not able to distinguish his hammer from his arms, had difficulties of hitting the anvil in front of him and could not tell left from right. I had to "anchor" him by touching the body part he had to move just in order to make him step up the step ladder in order to achieve the proper working height over the anvil. He visited a private school, a gymnasium of a very good reputation. But also his abstraction capabilities and intellectual capability was not "adequate" (I hope you know that I do not mean a disqualification by this, but refer to the system valid in the society of five years ago.) in a degree that terrified me. And the examples are legion. There is two kids of thirty maybe coming to the smithy not acting severely socially inadequate, and I mean it, when I say. I am not talking swear words or a bit of testing borders, but trying to swing a hammer full -tilt at the face of their fellows just to see what happens.

Now enter the encampment area of a re-enactment fair. Escapists and dreamers are gathered there, not being able to stand reality and dressing up like characters from a fantasy film. Some of them can be respected by the so-called normal and socially relevant people by doing actual living history and re-enacting the Viking age in a human zoo, but most of them actually do not put a mask on, but a mask off on the weekend. There are some middle management types, good people, bad people, and people in general. People from many social classes. But take a look at the kids. Often sooty, dirty, barefoot, and some even wear sharpened seaxes. They treat each other a bit rough often. But they act responsibly around the fire and the weapons and gladly accept responsibilities such as chopping wood and fetching water. And I have never in the roundabout 25 years of re-enactment seen a reenactor´s child kicking or beating anyone who had fallen to the ground, with the exception of an observed martial arts contest.

Dreamers like Petr and his son. Escapists. How come now that those escapists seem to be more capable than the "Herrenmenschen", the masters of virtual and economy? How come that those apparent outcasts are socially more capable, more intelligent and more virile?

I could bore you with scientific studies and sociological research. But I am a dreamer, so I´d try to answer the question with a dream.

In "Mara und der Feuerbringer" the protagonist, 14-year-old Mara Lorbeer has to face the "Feuerbringer" a demonic would-be god that was born out of a demon, a wrong translation - and, as I interpret it- psychological neglect. One could learn that there also is more to the dubious Dr. Thurisaz mentioned in the film, obviously making a big business out of selling esoteric seminars. But there is more to the seemingly superficial seminars. I a second part of the film we COULD learn, why the firebringer gains his power and whereof he is made. Mara is not done with him in the least, and the second book and the third (and I guess the fourth, which is currently in the making) will offer a lot of insight into the mythological world which is courtesy of Tommy as well as the Vikings themselves. And here is where the rubber hits the road and myth and magic meet the so - called actual world. The film was made with two big - term corporations. It was considered as recommendable by objective and independent institutes in Germany, and yet by active ignorance became subject to sabotage. But I do not want to rant on endlessly about that fact.

There was a growing community of people with a dream centering around Tommy and his achievement. Reenactors, poets, students and professors of Old Norse literature as well as druids and storytellers, musicians and lovers of fantasy and science fiction. How I am informed did they fight the sabotage and even managed a small victory in that smaller cinemas now boycott this abominable Marvel Avenger cartoon novel trash film in favour of a great movie made with heartfelt love. It was love that created this victory, and you can take for granted that I do not advertise this film because I get money or any other advantage from it than the dream coming to life. For if you look closely at how the topic of the movie and the adventures of Mara Lorbeer interfere with reality you notice something weird and wonderful: That where the story ends, another begins. And this latter story is deeply rooted in our prosaic everyday life, a life we thought was bereft of any wonders and cleaned and sanitized from all magic.

There is a loving community now. Dreamers, for sure. Escapists.

But escapists with teeth and nails. And as Mara Lorbeer faces the deity that wants to doom the world, with a little help by the professor and the Gods, the real story happening alongside it in the so - called real world coincides.

We all are faced with doom. It is reality. And a dark and unholy shadow is lurking in the sunshine of a world we thought was ours to take and shape. And it was all of us who invocated the shadow by forgetting to dream and love and tell our children wonderful stories. It is quite unhelpful to sit back and grin and look forward to the Apokalypse, as many monotheistic fanatics do. This attitude helped pave the road for the Evil that has befallen our world, the cynical grey god of a machinery human.

This cyborg human subspecies is thrice blessed and thrice cursed. First, it seems overly powerful and almighty. It has no dreams and thus no fear. It has not feelings but lust, greed and hate. It has everything it could want for and yet will always hunger for more, until it has eaten the world and all of its dreams. It feeds on all things colourful and turns it into a hopeless grey.

Am I wrong? Read the newspaper, watch the TV, browse the internet. And find your own opinion.

I am a dreamer. I guess I am a bit like Tommy, and Jonny, and Rhobynn. I am frightened, and cold, and I often have no hope left in the November rain.

But there is the love of my life by my side. I do not know how I will survive or fare. But I know there´s always help. As long as you stubbornly believe in your dream, and if you can´t do it, stubbornly believe you could, I guess there´d always be a way.

We will walk into the woods, into the night, along the stems of moss and tree into the golden twilight where both worlds meet. There it will be we will be clothed. There it will be we will find our weapons. There will be the place of our feasting and our fighting.

Death to the Maggot of Grey!

Marihar Iala Makija!

The buzzard that fell from the sky

Through the darkening autumn woods I broke in a feeble attempt to free myself from leaden time. Was it when or thence or just last week that I went out again? The winds were singing in a violent wind, and within the wind there was a space, and within this space there was a nest, and within this nest a secret curled, unfurled like a wisp of smoke upon the wind. A cry sounds in the woods by mystery enchanted, but was it real?

Those are just the same woods I visited so often and so long a time I have spent under the trees, alien to my kind.

And an aetherical scent, a smell upon a secret stench arises, musk and shadow from the rich, dark soil.

Onwards it led, the trail unseen, and scent and sight and sound  did guide me through the maze of trees.

What was that cry, a cry unheard, or was it real? What was that rustling in the leaves? Is this a dream or just an essay about things that were and things that are?

Insanity is the poet´s bridge. Damnation is a canyon on either side, and like a knife, and like its edge is the shallow arch above the abyss. What was that dream, the cry unheard, so wild above? Is this a sprite, or that white bird of dusk I have seen so often before a storm?

Thus grow the trees and from their seed of seeds firmly they tread their root into the ground, deeper, deeper, even when autumn passed and winterstorm comes.

Death is reigning, and from his hand the secret still unfurls like a mossy carpet. Deeper into the rich and musky soil I go to agnize the cry of mycel and sky; the lament of the land.

The song of a lunatic is this, but it is bane to love a poet, to fight a poet, to be a poet, and deeper, deeper still into halls unseen, into a dream forlorn, an oath and a spell. I go. I walk the pathway on and on, under a leaden sky, on a flight from a world well trodden into a hidden place.  

The buzzard that fell from the sky,

The dying fruit of the ever-prospering mycel,

The fallen tree still sprouts beside the well, all sing the song-the lament of the land.

Fly well, my spirit, my buzzard that fell from the sky, fly high amongst the song of life. Of death we sing, but is it truth? Is it dream or fancy?

The golden light now goes to rest behind the woods, the unending realm and the treaty of being.

Sleep well, behind  the doors of midnight, my friend, and sing your cry into the dream.

And far beyond the sinking sun I see the path untrodden;

and far behind the sinking sun the silver bridge arises to realms afar beyond the yonder, to times where the trail was straight and true.

Fly well, my song, along the road of dreams.

Autumn-the dance of life and death

 Nether brush and thicket, by the sizzling creek, stems the path into the twilight like a branch from olden trees.

 Along the mane of ancient moss leads the trail to yonder green.

 Am I small or am I of giant breed, am I a seed beneath the rotting leaves? Am I waiting, dancing, circling deeper, deeper, lower still?

 Thus rise the star of sunlight behind my brow, awhilst I go into the realm of twilit trails.

 Spirit wood of treesprite realm, open up thy cold embrace, warm still in the sunlight of a fading year.

 Nether thicket, brush and tree, treads my foot light and free, into the realm and yonder still.

 And song and thought and tale and lore stay silent in the forest´s hall; silently I thread my way, along a path of ancient dance.

 Sing of the blossoms of spring hidden in their rout; sing of the autumn scent awaken in the wind.

 From beneath the deep and dark the spirit of the mycel is rising to nourish the beasts and man with the twilight´s flesh; thus like is death, and we are mushrooms blooming from the abyss of our soul.

 And even if the sun may shine upon our dance, so does the star in the abyss, the root of the mountain, ice-cold and brighter as a sun in its own right, our soul. And as the mushrooms rise violently in autumn, so does that soul rise up to life, blooming with flower and tree and beast and man, rising like waters from a broken dam.

 Death is not, so fear not fading. The mouse, fallen from the fangs of the bird of prey, hit hard the ground and fell into the sleep of death, and maggots will eat the flesh and get rid of mortality, yet life will spring up with a new time of year.

 Sleep well, my little friend, and dream a crystal tear, and may you be rested.

 In the Golden Halls beneath the ground, where the sun will sleep in winter, fairy tales are born anew.

 Dark will become the land, and yet not dark.

 For in the darkest of all hours, the light is born anew.

 Moss grows upon the warlike fox´s skull; may his spirit guide the little mouse into the golden caverns where hunt and feast reign eternal.

 Sleeping under the hawthorne, beyond my feeble humanity, I rise to see the sun sinking, dying for but an hour, for but a second, and smile.

 Sleep not under the hawthorn, they say, or alien you will be for your fellow humans. But the hornet preys on the dragonfly, and the hunt is eternal in this time of year.

 So may thou sink, sun, beloved of the summer earth, and may the harvest be rich.

And to all you out there:

Have a good harvest, a lovely autumn, and good memories of a great summer gone by.

And never fear the grey god´s disciples.

Grímsearksbérarmál

Kreise, Kreise, Schritte zwei

Hin und hin und her,

Stränge zwei und zwei Welten,

Webe Leben, Kampfkunst Dir.

Räder, Räder, Klingensang,

Freie Schultern ohne Zwang,

Drei die Kessel, Feuersäule,

Kreise zwei und Schritte frei.

Tanze, tanze, Sonne, Mond,

Singe, Klinge, Ringe zwei,

Schwellen, Steigen, Sinken, Fallen,

Auch Gesang der starken Tür,

Fliege, fange, breche Eisen,

Bogen, Messer, Kette auch,

Schwert und Beil und Eibenstab

Mantel, Maske, Mondlicht Dir.

Ringe, Ringe, Kreise zwei,

Zeichen in der Ewigkeit,

Spiel das Spiel der Hohen Hallen,

Tanze Sternenwirbel auch.

Fliege, fange, breche Eisen,

Schwelle, steige, sinke sanft,

Wogentanz im alten Mondlicht,

Klingenglanz und freier Schritt. 

Tanze, tanze, Schwellen, Steigen,

Sinken, sanft, und Drachenflug,

Stürze in den blauen Kessel,

Sing Gesänge alter Macht.

Alte Macht des Elfenrades,

Silberstrasse auf dem See,

Träume alturalte Pfade,

Nebel liegt im Eisenwald.

Webe Mantel, webe Zauber,

Webe Funken, tanze Blitze,

Drehe Dich im Tanz der Räder,

Fliege, fange, breche Stahl.

Durch das Mondlicht,

Durch die Nebel,

Schemenglanz im Eisenwald.

Leise scheint der Mond ein Zwielicht

Auf den tiefen Brunnen hin.

Spiegeln Flammen sich im Schwertstahl,

Spiegelt dort sich auch der Mond,

Einsam brennt die Flammensäule,

Eisenbaum auf Kupferberg.

Und aus sieben ist die Flur

Gebaut ist auch der Kreis der Zwölf,

Gemacht in der Gestalt von Schwertern,

Stehen ewig stählern Wacht.

Und dies ist der Ring der Kampfkunst,

Und dies ist der Eisenwald,

Und dies ist der Kreis der Schlachten,

Und das Lied des Stahls singt kalt.

Fünf die Ringe, fünf die Finger,

Sieben Elektron, die Zier des Stahls,

Darauf tanzen wilde Flammen,

Ins Wasser scheint der Mond so fahl.

Es tanzt der Wind im Blätterdunkel,

Weide, wild am Wasserrain

Und stampft der Stiefel auch die Flechte,

Bald schon richtet sie sich auf.

Und türmt sich an der Wand die Wächte

Nimmt bald Lawine ihren Lauf.

Tanze, tanze, schwelle, steige,

Sinke sanft, Dein Drache fliegt.

Fliege über Bergesgipfel,

Fange, und zerbreche Eisen,

Der Mantel schirmt die Seele Dir.

Wissen liegt im Wald berborgen,

Wahrheit liegt im kalten Wind,

Weisheit singt in alten Tänzen,

Und in des wilden Kranichs Flug.

Finde Mut im Lauf der Hirsche,

Unter der Zunge grauen Wolfs,

Finde Trost im Ruf der Eule,

Und im Fang des Falken hell.

Wissen liegt im Gang des Bären,

Atem der Fische, Bart der Frau,

Bergeswurzel, Dunkelheit,

Weisheit in der alten Fessel,

Geschmeidig noch und silbern grau.

Drum sei Dein Gang der Gang des Bären,

Drum sei Dein Fuß die Bergeswurzel,

Sei wie Mann und Frau, sei eins,

Atme still die tiefen Wasser,

Atme still und atme frei.

Und wenn es ruft Dich hin zur Pflicht,

Opfre Deine Hand dem Würger,

Ihn zu binden ohne Schlacht

Und steh eng dann Aug in Auge

Mit dem Kind des Lügenredners

Dass er wisse, wer Du seist.

Tanze, tanze, Schwellen, Steigen,

Schritte neun und Kreise zwei,

Tanze durch das Licht der Welten,

Fliege auch durch grauen Stein.

Fliege, fange, breche Eisen,

Räder drei und Flur der Zwölf,

Einsam brennt die alte Eibe,

Schwert und Nabel am Rand der Schlacht.

Folge still dem Hasen alt

Über Mondlichtflure hin,

Auf dem Pfad der Jägerin,

Durch den kalten Eisenwald.

Reglos neben scheuen Rehen,

Mit dem Bär in einer Höhle,

Mit dem Wolf in einem Rudel,

Unter Wildschweinrotte, Hasenvolk.

Sitze still auf dunkler Lichtung,

Leg an Mantel, Maske, Kette, Schwert,

Bogen, Beil und langes Messer;

Sitze still und unsichtbar,

Bis die üble Beute kommt.

Sei ein Nebel unter Schatten,

Schwer ein schwarzer Schleuderstein,

Sei ein grausam kaltes Messer

Eisen, Bronze, Würgerfluch.

Fliege, fange, breche Eisen,

Schwelle, steige, schwinge Stahl,

Gehüllt in düstren Schattenmantel

Der Wälder Kampfkunst alturalt.

Sei der Nabel auf dem Hügel,

Wächterstein am Heldengrab,

Sei ein Wächter alter Lieder,

Drachen zwei am Lebensbaum.

Es mahlt die Mühle Zauberlieder,

Wurzeln drei und Kessel auch,

Erde, Atem, grünes Feuer,

Das AOUEIn klingt im Wälderwind.

Schwelle, steige, durch die Kessel,

Schweige sanft den Eulenpfad,

Vernimm die Runen alter Wipfel,

Singe sanft den Würgerfluch.

Wissen unter den drei Wurzeln,

In Zwielichtbrunnen, Drachenneid,

Es mahlt die Mühle ewig Lieder,

Wo Allvater einst sein Auge barg.

Drum brennt ein Licht in dunkler Höhle,

Drum rinnt das Feuer grün bergan,

Drum fließt der Wind in die drei Kessel,

Drum gärt der Schaum im dunklen Sumpf.

Wissen auch im Stamm verborgen,

Wächst und webt und rennt bergauf,

Auf, hinauf, zur alten Krone, 

Wo vier Winde halten Wacht.

Drei der Kessel, Räder auch,

Wissen liegt im Baum verborgen,

Weisheit, Wurzel, Krone, Stamm,

Wissen in der Hirsche Äsung,

Und im Brunnen tief im Holz.

So wächst der Baum hin zu den Sternen,

Wolf und Bär und Eulenflug,

Verhüllte Wächter, Bogen, Messer,

Kupfer, Bronze, Stein und Stahl.

Und weht ein Sturm der Eisensprache,

Durch den Hain der alten Kunst,

Verzage nicht, denn der Mantel

Schirmt vor Hass und Eisen Dich.

Und jenseits alter goldener Hallen,

Fort und weiter aus der Welt,

Führen Dich die Zwielichtpfade

Hin zu weißen Hallen hoch.

Es gärt der Met im tiefen Kessel,

Dunkel in der Erde kühl,

Geborgen unter den drei Wurzeln,

Vergoren wird der Dichtermet.

Und steigt nicht auf der Schatz des Adlers,

Des Riesen Lösung, heiliger Trank,

Hin zum hellen Gold des Herzens,

Und zum blauen Stern hinauf?

Kommt auf die Lippen Dir die Süße,

Honig hell und Runensang,

Schmiede Schwerter Dir und Speere,

Eisensprache, Schildgesang.

Webe alles dies in Deinen Mantel,

Zum Schutz vor Haß und Eisen Dir,

Zur Tarnung, wenn im Wald Du lauerst,

Auf der Blitze Beutetier.

Fliege, fange, breche Eisen,

Geschirmt von Mantel, Stahlwind, Met,

Von dem süßen Schatz des Adlers,

Von der tiefen Rune Klang.

Stahl liegt in der Bärenfährte,

In der Spur des grauen Wolfs,

Und im Tritt der starken Elche,

Liegt die Saat des kalten Winds.

Und der Gang der Bärentatze,

Und der Pfad des grauen Wolfs,

Und die Wut herbstlicher Elche,

Der Fische Atem, Bart der Frau,

Hell strahlt and der Bergeswurzel

Alturalt der kalte Stern.

So kommt nieder Sumpf und Gärung,

Geboren wird der kalte Stahl,

So steigt auf das Lied des Messers

Unter Mond und Sternen fahl.

Wirf das Erz in Deine Esse,

Das Herz, das lachend Lohe singt,

Schür das Feuer hell und heißer

Mit dem Sturm des blauen Sterns.

Schmiede so das kalte Messer,

Ring und Kelch und Kette Dir,

Schmiede Stahl und wirke Wunder

An den Wurzeln wilder Macht.

Schwingst Du das Schwert,

Ein Mond im Wasser,

Sei Sternenlicht,

Nimm vom Glanz von Mond und Sternen,

Ein kaltes Lied der Flöte fern,

Flöte hell und Silbermaske,

Zwielichtmantel, Eisensturm.

Klingt im Hain eherne Sprache,

Verzage nicht, denn in der Esse

Findest bald den Schlüssel Du,

Öffnest bald die Kupferschlösser,

Eisen, Silber, Gold und Stahl.

Fliege, fange, breche Eisen,

Singe, tanze, schmiede Stahl,

Stahl in brennend heißer Lohe,

Lohe tief im Herzen wild.

Schmiede Dir die Runenkette,

Neun der Glieder, Lied aus Stahl,

Name und die Benennung,

Stellvertreter, Bindeglied.

Und erstaunend werfe Wunder,

Ein die Glieder aus dem Erz,

Möglichkeit der Gesänge,

Zeit und Zeitenweise alt.

Fliege fange, breche Eisen,

Es brennt das Feuer aus neun Hölzern,

Es lodert Lohe heiß und hell.

Räder, Räder, Flammenlieder,

Frei die Dichtung ohne Zwang,

Drei die Kessel, Feuersäule,

Webe Wissen, schaffe Sturm.

Dies ist auch die Kunst des Schaffens

Eines jeglich Dinges hier,

Fern noch von der Welt des Lebens

Wartet ungesungenes Lied.

Schmiedest Verse Du und Lieder

Oder Stahl am Amboß alt,

Träumst Du Dich durch Schwerterstürme;

Dies ist die Kunde alter Weisheit:

Schaffenskraft der Grüne hell.

Siehst Du das Bild, hörst Du die Lieder,

Im dunklen Kessel, blau und tief?

Sing Gesänge, alte Lieder,

Schmiede Glieder, altes Erz,

Dem Feigen kocht er Speise nicht.

Gefunden wird das Bild des Eisens,

Wind im lichten, heilgen Hain...

Finde Namen und Benennung,

Dreh im Lichte hin und her,

Bild des Namens der Benennung,

Nornen drei am Weltenbaum,

Tanz des Spiels der Möglichkeiten:

Rufe hell dann Lieder aus.

So klingt also unter den Bäumen

In der Halle Runensang,

Lohe, Feuer der Geschichten,

Eisen beugt sich Eisenzwang.

Alsdann tanze die Exstase,

Versenkung in die Kessel auch,

Vergoren wird der Trank der Mitte,

Aus dem Brunnen an der Wurzel,

Unter alten Säulen drei.

  

Hitze steigt auf aus den Lenden,

Leben drängt zu Leben hin,

Doch geheim ist jene Kunde,

Die Kraft zu nutzen aus dem Sinn.

Was belebt das Kind der Mutter,

Was treibt an Kind, Mann und Frau,

Was belebt die jungen Pflanzen,

Und die großen Bäume alt?

Was Geheimnis jeden Lebens,

Grünes Feuer, Lendenlust?

Lendenlicht, Gesang der Tiefe,

Aus dem Feuer stammt der Trank.

Gibt dem Geist die fernen Bilder,

In Hitze und in Kühlung hin,

Gibt der Hand den Drang zum Schaffen,

Gibt dem Schwert die Kraft zum Krieg.

Fliege, fange, breche Eisen,

Tanze wild und tanze frei,

Finde Namen und Benennung,

Räder kreisen, Räder drei.

Schöpfe aus dem Trank der Tiefe

Bilder und die grüne Kraft;

Aus dem Abgrund höchster Höhe

Kommt Benennung dann zu Dir.

Und fandest Du den wahren Namen,

Und sangst Du Wesen, Sinn und Sein,

Wirst nach Willen Du erschaffen

Dich und was zu schaffen

Du ansonsten noch begehrst.

Fliege, fange, breche Eisen,

Tanze Lieder alter Macht.

Schaffe aus der Kraft des Lebens

Den Gesang des Schicksals Dir.

Schon strahlt auf der Stirn die Sonne

Und im Nacken leuchtet Mond,

Neumond unter Hauptes Wurzel,

Vollmond an des Rückgrats Grund.

Sterne leuchten an den Flanken, 

Fünf Gesänge tanzen wild...

Fliege, fange, breche Eisen,

Tanze Sterne, leuchte hell.

Sonnenrad in Herzensmitte,

Sternenlicht im dunklen Schoß,

Und auf dem Scheitel brennt die Krone,

Greift hinab zum kühlen Grund.

Lege an den Schattenmantel,

Maske, Messer, Kette, Kelch,

Stets trifft auch der alte Bogen,

Bogen aus dem Sternkristall.

Niemals fehlt der alte Bogen,

War auch tief der Krieger Fall,

Licht verbrennt die falschen Götter,

Feuer auf der Feste Grund.

Hoch liegt hell der Zauberhügel

Unter Flammenschein der Berg,

Burg der Häuser reinen Lichtes,

Feuerrad am Horizont.

Acht Mal Neun die hohen Häuser,

Sonnennamen, Mondlichtweg,

Kannst Du diese Rune raten,

Spannst den Kristallbogen Du?

Auf der Brust die Burg des Rades,

Feuerrad auf Mondlichtweg,

Zweiundsiebzig die Spirale,

Geheimnis in der Weite fern.

Gärt der goldene Met im Dunkel,

Strahlt in der Krone blau der Stern,

Goldenrot die Feuersäule,

Drachenrückgrat, Mondlichtweg.

Kreist die Flammenrune diese Wege

In der Burg der starken Tür,

Geheimnis eines Drachenherzens

Durch zweiundsiebzig Häuser DIr.

Fliege, fange, breche Eisen,

Kristallbogen schmiedet Stahl.

Tiefe Erde, Urgrund, Kühlung,

Quelle tief im dunklen Grund.

Sonne scheint auf dunkle Wasser,

Tanzt den Mondlichtrunentanz,

Tiefe Erde, Urgrund, Kühlung,

Wird liebkost von wildem Wind.

Zweiundsiebzig die Spirale,

Dreht im Herz den alten Tanz

Neunfach acht zur linken Seite

und zur rechten achtfach neun.

Sonnenlicht über dem Herzen,

Häuser unter Mond und Stern,

Häuser, Räder, Schultern frei,

Donnerrune, Räder drei.

Spanne den uralten Bogen,

Kristallrune, Pilzgeflecht,

Langsam ballt die Faust des Gottes

Um der Blitze Griffstück sich.

Dies ist auch die Kraft des Kampfes,

Silberpfeile, Schilf am Teich,

Blitze wiegend sich im Winde,

Wind der Burg des alten Rades,

Feuerrad auf Mondlichtweg.

Fliege, fange, breche Eisen,

Kraft der Blitze schmiedet Stahl,

Verborgen tief im Zwielichtmantel

Harrt der Eisenrune Klang.

Langsam ballt die Faust des Gottes 

Um der Blitze Griffstück sich;

Grellheiß singt der alte Winter

Wind in heller Esse tief.

Fliege, fange, schmiede Eisen,

Den weißenn Tod der Hexe Dir,

Webe dies in Deinen Mantel,

Schattenlied aus Zeit und Macht.

Name, Ausruf und Benennung,

Zwielicht, Nebel, Eisensturm,

Eisentanz, der Tod der Hexe,

Und im Stahl glänzt Echsenhaut.

Webe Schimmern, webe Stränge

Tanze Stahl und Zwielichtwoge,

Tanze Träume, Baumgesänge,

Webe Leben, spinnwebfein.

Fliege, fange, breche Eisen,

Eichenlied und starkes Tor,

Wipfelwindwut webt die Lieder

Glieder neun der Kette kalt.

Webe Dornen drei zum Mantel,

Stahlwindlied und Drachenzorn,

Kichern kleiner Geisterkinder

In Wind und Wut des alten Walds.

Geister, Schemen, Schattenlieder,

Geben Führung und Geleit;

Es singt der Wind in Wipfelwiege,

Baumgeistlieder knarren tief.

Fliege, fange, breche Eisen,

Leiser Schritt in Dickungsgrund,

Wege führen weit und weiter

Durch den Wald der alten Kunst.

...to be  continued, but I don´t know if I can ever translate it. It was given to me in a night of exstasy and perceived with pain and many words simply do not transport the same power in another language. I´ll dream up something similar for my English readers... promise (or threat?;-)).