More on Vigga the Volva

Vigga Volva digesting news
shuddered silently
wrinkling her bright brow.
Broaching her toils of work
she mumbled humbly
T'is is not going to be easy!
How can philosophical people
just gerrymanderingly accept
this whole wretched war.

Started on false fear
of invasion of the island
an islet so isolated
that another awesome attack
would be irrationally likely
like the one one scenic September.

Fear is a moving mover
and a shimmering shaker
therefore plain people believed
because the powerful powers posed
that this was their fulsome fear.

Ach, the way Vigga the Volva
warily sees the solemn situation.
It was an explanatory excuse
to get the weary wheels going.
Signs of economic decline
before the wary war was declared
slumpingly slither into
forgotten memories falsely
accused that it is not a war
about ominous burning oil
but about frightening freedom.

Volva Vigga shook her maidenly mane
and twirled a twist of her auburn locks
muttered while meandering
between the mighty moss
in the dark shade of the gleaming glade.

Why do Gaia's folks not adhere to
sensible sense and see twisting tales
for what they honestly hold?
Where was Sophia, her sensible sister?

Vigga the Volva was sorry
because Sophia had swearingly left -
not to return to the glimmering glade
for as long as the pesky people
who would not want sensational sensibility
and had forgotten all about
everlasting emissary enduring Erato.

Vigga the Volva haphazardly hastened
her nightly necromantic Nordic steps,
she was late for her throbbing toils
digging in the dire dirt for winding weeds
around her stout seedling planted
a full moon before Beltane's ballyhoo.

She started to weep wearily but well-spent
tears dropped daintily on the startling sprout.
Every tear every night reminded
Vigga the Volva of the many many people
who died for naught but hatred and gain.

If all the feisty females would go and cry
every eve and refuse their menfolk
the jubilant joys of conjoinment:
Lighthearted lusty Lysistrata.
Mayhap the menfolk would moan
and give up fearsome fulsome fights.
Although the pensive protagonist
would not biddingly bet on it.

Vigga the Volva lifted her head
crowned with beautiful auburn locks
of earthen eery shimmering sheen
and stared out in the dull darkness.
She stole another anxious look
down on her symphonic sycamore's
sprightly growing sprig.
It accepted her tears and dewdrops
from her almond-greyish eyes.

Vigga the Volva was going to toil
tending the newborn Yggdrasil.
Turning her back walking away
she would return the next eve -
her chilly cheeks hurt hauntingly
from her dried saline drops.