The Volva's command

Fiery frosty feisty Vigga the Volva
wrought her thoughts
over whether to revenge herself
on her rapist or not.
The elvish folks had found her knife
and stolen it back to her.
She met them near the brackish brook
where frogs and flies fought
during the Eostre celebration -
the month for venerable Venus.
The elves had picked the Vernal Equinox
an auspicious day to bring her
her grandmother's elfish knife
with the word "Grosswolf" engraved
on the tip of the brilliant Toledo blade.

She thanked them humbly and offered
them some darkly mead for their pains.
The elves were grateful as their travails
had been long and laborious.
Before she could say thanks again
they had disappeared in their elvish mist.


She became pensive and pondered
as she perceived the awe-inspiring assegai.
It had meant to kill and protect innocents
of their attrocious assailants.
Now it was waiting her cruel commands.
Could she kill, maim, harm another being?
Her ruthless rapist had had
no quenchable qualms where she had been concerned,
could she do what nature's law required her to do,
or should she albeit ascribe to the law of mercy
The bolster in which she had carried
her knife was in her maidenly hut
and she went in to fetch it.
She simply sheathed her grandmother's grand knife
into the leather and strabbed it onto her lithe leg,
brushed her long favourite frock and strode out
of the hut into her well-known world of woods
feeling infinite more safe, even though she knew
that she was a very vulnerable wrench,
but a wise woman with burdensome bourn:
to strike or not to strike, preemptively:
revenge or hindrance that the molesting male
would do his heinous degrading deed evermore.

She strode out into the woods going first to water
the yearning Ygdrasil near the little brook
the Eostre's bid of blooms was spectacular,
the yellows against the dark forest floor shined
like majestic moons - the Earth greatest gift
life - stood in greatest opposition to
what the Volva Vigga wavered - to take a life?

Mulling over what her new choice wrought
she looked at her tree and talked in her mind
not with Sophia her highborn sister - but
to her grandmother's ghost, wrestling - wondering.
The woods which had been sun-baked as
she came out of her hut were now dark
the water in the brook whorled dangerously
and Ydgrasil's light branches screeched.

Vigga the Volva's grandmother stood in
her mightly eery sheen, ghastly ghostly green
spoke spookily to her granddaughter
only one word - "Kill!"