Fimbulvetr

An unnatural, ashen season assaults the last refuge of Man.

The house on the hill stands silent in the snow
The cold, cruel fingers of wild winter wind
Tirelessly tapping its frosted white windows
Eager to enter through keyholes and cracks.

The house on the hill hugs its furnace of fire
The warm-armoured arms of flickering flame
Protecting its parlour, defending its doorway
Dissolving its enemy’s icy attacks.

There is no other house now, no other home
But buildings besooted with ash in the snow
Líf and Lífþrasir reside in these walls
No kin will arise once the bright furnace falls.

The house on the hill and the wild winter wind
Wage war in the dark of Hoddmímis holt
The battle concluded before it began:
Its pale, Pyrrhic victor
Predestined long before
By he become Death
Destroyer of worlds.