Sunday, 1 March 2009

Ginnungagap and Allfather

Ginunngagap and Allfather.

In the beginning was naught but the void,
That sacred black hole called Ginnungagap,
As in Midgard amongst men is it known,
Both in its breadth and depth immeasurable,
An infinite emptiness in which nothing moved,
Guarding the gates between the nine worlds,
Ginnungagap awaits the coming of Allfather,
Whose will alone defines its future forms,
For neither heaven nor earth as yet existed,
Nor sky and sea, nor the shields of sun and moon,
Had yet arose or set upon the gleaming swell,
Of the oceans within which life would dwell,
Then light dawned, as a spark in the darkness,
Penetrated the tomb with its illumination,
Then through the golden gates the gods arrive,
As avatars descending to claim their new kingdoms,
A single particle of light, the Mother Rune flashes forth,
Swaddling the entire cosmos, small as a grain of sand,
Hagal expands amidst the gulf of Ginnungagaps womb,
The primal seed sown from its singularity,
Whose first spark sits at the heart of all future stars,
Ignites and explodes into the sighing abyss,
‘I am become Life’ the light cries, ‘Creator of worlds’
Then as from a deed to deed, the first sun is born,
Energy unleashing, as matter is cast forth into being,
The universe is set in motion, time commences,
Rising powers claim their thrones amidst the chaos,
Marshalling all the forces at their disposal,
As three Norns sit in silence weaving the threads of fate
Urd, Verdande and Skuld, the sisters of the loom,
Who with webs of their Wyrd forever weave new worlds,
Forging the sacred connections of infinite complexity,
That will one day usher in the age of Ragnarok,
Then Nifelheim forms northwards in Ginnungagaps womb,
Where Hvergelmer of the twelve rivers is born,
A mighty fountain of molten lava constant gushing, ,
In a realm of ragged iron and bubbling black slag,
Icy eitre runs from Elivagar as blood from a wound,
Pouring from the roaring red cauldron at the core its being,
Endlessly swept with cruel storms of snow and ice,
Its skin of stasis is constant cracking about its being,
As groaning rocks grow upon the crust of its prison,
Vapours slowly condense into snow capped mountains,
Down whose flanks pour rushing white torrents,
The streams of primal matter undergoing metamorphosis,
As in the mist, the giants are formed from single elements,
And animated with simple minds of ice and stone,
To serve as Hela’s slaves within the halls of death,
The obedient agents of her desires until times end,
Then southward there arises fiery Muspleheim,
A lucent cell of primal energy and flame, a dancing star,
Spraying the darkness with radiant sparks of light,
Scattering sacred photons as spores into space,
The universe starts to spin, dancing in a ring of fire,
As the stars explode into life, so entropy unfolds,
Atoms are forged within the furnace flames,
Of the glorious forges of the ever dying gods,
Forming with their fury the myriad sacred structures,
That define the bounds of Ginnungagaps future glory,
As after the first light burst of primal expansion,
Comes the slow grinding down of times contraction,
Until Ginnungagap itself is once again reborn,
When Vidar avenges Odin, consumed by Fenrer,
The old gods shall die and the end devour the beginning.

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