We wither, unlike stars; die, unlike hills and cisterns.
Ana shadowed my protector, esteemed Arbad, who’s left us.
But ana do not grieve; all sparrows exit the feast hall.
Novelties don’t excite me, nor wyrdstaef affright me.
Men are like encampments that soon become ruins.
They come with their kin, leave only land behind when
the last herdsman rounding up the stragglers.
Man’s a shooting star: light turned to ash.
Wealth and kin a stain that soon wears away.
The work we do inevitably gehrorene.
The wise grasp this; the foolish fight it and lose.
If my wyrd holds off a while, my fingers reach out for its stick.
Ana can tell you stories, bent over the more ana try to straighten.
Ana am like a battered sword that hasn’t gotten any less sharp.
Don’t leave me! (The sparrow finds the exit suddenly—.)
O you reproachful wifcynn: when the men go off
Can your witchcraft tell us who’ll return?
Do you faint because they flet ofgeāfon?
You make everyone weep! for the burston bodies
of the irreplaceable friends of your own youth.
But neither the witches nor the necromancers know
what the aelmihtig intends. Just ask them:
Hwœr cōm the men? Hwœr cōm our protectors?
They don’t even know when the rain storm will come!