Often the destitute await a favour of, an authority's aid. He was afflicted and long times have tested his timber. His hands stir the cold curdling sea,    

 restless wading. A woven binding fate. 

  

 So the hobo cries, engrossed in his grief, of old attacks and traumas taken, of slaughters.

 

Often I solitary alone, in black hours writhe with woes . I no longer know

of intimacy, ripped of relations my family all dead of sharing affection.

I know it is the veteran's high creed to bind fast his spirit, guard his thoughts, yet inside think freely. Weary mind never withstands the fates,

nor do troubled thoughts bring aid. Therefore, military minds often bury

deep their dread anticipation, And so have I.

 

Often despairing,  abandoned. An infinity without affinity incarcerates reason. Long ago earth covered my commander in dark mud, and I was left wretched, rambling inconsolable  and winter sad. For seasons repeating seeking, a warm home, company, whether far or near I might find one in a mess hall who might accept my affection, or on me, friendless,

might wish consolation. Offer me joy. He knows who tries it, how cruel a sorrow is this unemployment, to one who has few companions, or beloved friends.

 

The rejection owns him. Not of twisted gold, his spirit is frozen. Life without ambition. He remembers comrades in arms prizes won

how in his youth his good friends received him with rewards. That rapture has all gone! Forgoing without his old advisers loved ones lessons a long time forgetting. When sorrow and sleep join together the lonely are often shackled in memory. It seems in his mind that he is amid kin's clasps and kisses, and on knee lays hands and head, as when in times passed

in old days he received position and renown.

 

When our friendless hero awakens again, he sees before him pale ochre shores seabirds bathing spreading feathers, hoarfrost hail and snow falling, a haze bewilders. To have loved then lost and not regained is the bitterest of sweets. Sorrow gains each time memory turns through the mind. He greets with gladness, eagerly scans new companions and always they swim away! These spirits of seafarers bring no substance speach or song. Care is renewed ever over the horizon that yearning sucking from his heart. Heavy inner exhaustion.

 

Therefore, I cannot think, why on earth,  my mind does not grow dark when the life of men I fully think through, how easily they abandoned this life,

favoured volunteers. This Middle-Earth a bit each day decomposes and falls.

Therefore man cannot call himself wise, before he has a share of winters in the world.

A wise man is gentle calm, not loud, nor hothead, not too hasty worded. Not too weak worried, nor too wrathful, not too frightened nor foolhardy, not avaricious, no never eager to gloat.

 

Before he understands a hero should wait before he speaks an oath,

until bold in mind, he clearly knows where his thoughts afterwards may turn.

A warrior becomes wise when he sees this world is more than his personal warfield.

 

Now here and there across this Middle-Earth blown on by wind walls stand

covered with frost.

 

end one

 

A building storm shaken,an edifice eroding.

 

Earls lie down deprived of joy. The regiment all fallen,

left regalia by the rampart.

 

Some war plundered, pushed and propelled.

Some a bird bore off over sorry seas.

Some the hoar wolf guzzled to death.

Some sadfaced earl was entombed, hidden.

Age old shaper of men devastated this dwelling place until, lacking the cries, the revels of men, old giants’ work stood worthless.

 

With wise mind he thought on this foundation on this dark life deeply pondering the wise spirit remembers often from afar many conflicts, then spoke these words.

Where is that horse? Where is the rider?

Where is the bountiful giver?

Where are the high sitters?

Where are the hall's revellers?

Alas, bright bowl! Alas, burnished fighter!

Alas, proud prince! How that time has passed,

It's Dark under night sky, as though it never had been!

 

Standing behind the dear warband a wondrous high wall, Worm stained,

A host of Ash spears hungry for carnage men destroyed. A marvellous fate!

Storms batter the stone cliff. Snowstorm, attacking, frost blankets the earth,

winter moaning, when the dark one comes, night shadows blacken, stars fall from the north. A hungry-wolf hailstorm hater of men.

 

All is wretched in the realm of the earth; The way of fate changes the world underthe firmament. Here are treasures ruined, here are friends ruined. Here are men ruined, here are family ruined. All the foundation of this world turns to waste!

 

The one wise in mind says, sitting aloof in rune. Good, is he who keeps faith, nor too quickly his grief makes known, unless he already knows the remedy.

 

A hero must act with courage.

 

He who has need, gets consolation from the lord above who has fastened all firm.