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Skálmöld
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Valhöll
A hero is fallen, his hand is wounded.
His head is split down to his neck.
Since then there grow mayweeds
a ptarmigan picks at the berries.
Valkyries fetch the warriors,
the field is littered with blood.
Oden will make you an einherji,
soon, dear friend.
Swooped up, the hold is strong
taken without any trickery.
The clash of weapons echoes everywhere,
we must not delay.
He has proven himself,
a hero and a maker of fate.
We bid farewell to this excellent man,
that man's name is Baldur.
Valkyries now look over the battlefield,
pick out men to do great deeds.
Bifrost awaits us,
Baldur rides Thor's buck.
Above we see heathen ravens,
Huginn, Muninn gathering wisdom.
Heimdall will open the gates,
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we head inside and straight to arms.
Einherjar trudge across the fields,
Valhalla the best of places.
Midgard bids farewell, powerless
I'm in a hazy slumber.
Now I look down and look upon
the bulls by my old farm.
There is life by the pond,
the bale is wrapped in heather.
Young children are playing there;
Life goes in circles.
The gods now watch over us,
gladly we shall quench our thirst.
We can praise each other in good friendship,
we drink the mead, we eat the meat.
Both of them, Jarl Gunnar, Grímur,
empty their glasses and sing rhymes.
Prepared for Ragnarok,
we drive our swords right through them.
Our wounds are healed, sorrows back off.
Our souls are whole, I thank Oden.
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