The Vølva weaved her willful thoughts
again around in her inner sanctuary
near her wonderful old Yggdrasil
the tree she could see herself dance
Around to a cosmic cancan rhythm
- generation upon generation -
well to be brutally honest what
she could not see was her mother's face
but her father's stood out - odd
because when he died she - the Vølva
- hated him - but her own authentic
- no not authentic - but baseline life
she realized that there is a double
for every act - a counter act
- within that opposition a debate opens
and she would have to ask herself
whether she understood the actions
of her progenitors or rather could
she or anyone judge another human
for what their genes entailed - enclosed
embraced and more or less entwined
let it be understood that only yourself
not anyone else could only be responsible
as an advancing adult within his or her
timeframe - timeline or space in time
for his or her own actions and behaviors
if you did not have any appeasing facts
working against your body or mind
With what right did she have - only
she had been a young naive chick -
- empathy not sympathy was what
she had found as she grew older
The Vølva Vigga decided to accept
Her abject feelings from that time
And forgive but not forget the deeds
Because if your mind rejected
These debilitating daft sentiments
Of yesteryear then she the waning Vølva
Would be a fake half human being
Accepting and acknowledging
Those youthful jousting thoughts
part for the millions and millions
Of wired wounds - but without those
she would not have been who she is
Today and all her DNA with chemicals
would not have lightened up
as her father's face reclaimed her
just as she was lurking lecherously
around yonder Yggdrasil wanting
waiting to swish and twist and just
do what she wanted without postulating
whether or not or why or wherefore
that she was guilty of something other
than a zest for life - embracing
her heritage of genetic matter mostly
and accepting herself as she truly is
a blazing being with definite desires
without shame or blame laughing
along the little stream of unconscious
urbane urges twirling twisting
hers and her archaic tree's twigs in air
hoping that she would one day
again cuddle in her vulva and vagina
the desired handout or phallus
not under the trunk but the off shoots
of the tree of life in her little
hiding place somewhere in a wooded
edenescent vine-filled backdrop
Vigga just pushed herself violently
to never let go of Yggdrasil's drive
dreaming all that she Vigga the Vølva
died not in vain having dared live
her life during these weird whiles
wholeheartedly and as honest
as a Venetian quattrocento courtisan.
