Through the veil of mist, she treads,
Where all light fades and shadows wed.
Across the fjords of jagged stone,
A mother walks, but not alone.
For grief, her constant guide and ghost,
Has led her where all lost souls coast.
To Helheim’s gates, dark and grim,
She prays the Goddess will hear her hymn.
Her heart, a vessel made of flame,
Burns with her lost child’s given name.
With every step, her body shakes,
But her love for him will never break.
The air is cold, the winds are wild,
Yet nothing chills like death of child.
The ancient gates of Helheim groan, But still she calls, though all alone.
“Hel, great Goddess of the dead,
Return my child,” the mother pled.
“Take my life, my breath, my days,
But let him walk in the sun’s warm rays.”
The silence lingers, thick and still,
As if the earth absorbs her will.
From shadows deep, Hel makes her way,
Her face half-pale as winter’s day.
“I cannot give what fate has sealed,
For death is a truth that can’t be repealed.
But mother, strong with heart so true,
I will grant one gift to you.”
The child appeared, a fleeting spark,
His eyes aglow in the endless dark.
One moment more, one final kiss,
Hel’s precious gift, a fleeting bliss.
Then darkness wrapped him in its shroud,
And silence fell, so harsh and loud.
The mother wept, but rose again,
She had held her child in Helheim’s den.
She turned and left that shadowed realm,
Her heart a bruised and battered helm.
But though she walks through life alone,
She carries him—her flesh, her bone.
2024 ©️
The Royal Octopus 