No Catafalque No Sarcophagus

By Anonymous

Dying surrounded by countless dead,
cut down by wounds.
Armor rent and soaked
Spewing life’s blood.

Like a cataract to the ground
that flees from heights like
a thunderous avalanche.
He watches blood quench the earth.

Deaths awareness arrives
and knows that these last moments
as a warrior of Norsca Ankor
should be lived well.

Fueled by the gaze
of his ancestors
and honor bound
he stands and walks.

To heavy, to weary to wield
almost past carrying
his axe leaves a wound
in the life-soaked soil.

The sound of battle nears
as vision wanes.
Breath is shallow.
He stands steady unbeaten.

An enemy approaches.

With ebbing strength he
raises his axe on high and
cries out “Khazukan Kazakit-ha!”

The enemies head in bloody flight
He falls into Gazul’s embrace
and the fellowship of kin
welcomed into the Hall of Grimnir.

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