Yggdrasil
Beneath the roots of the Tree of Life,
The mythical Yggdrasil,
Live the Three Sisters of Fortune,
Three spinners sit weaving still.
Our fortunes favoured, fortunes damned,
Are spun to dusk from dawn,
The destinies of every man
Ordained before we’re born.
Spun threads of rope and threads of silk
And threads of finest gold;
With every one a path of life
The Spinners have foretold.
Embittered entertainment prompts
Their play with our distress;
They weft and warp our misery
With transient happiness.
Even the most blessed threads
May still incur their wrath,
Sometimes are spun through deeper roots
To weave a darker cloth.
The rarest threads, the bravest lives
Led so resolutely,
But as with gold debase to dust
Corrupted absolutely.
They spin the hopes we seek fulfilled,
And bring them dashing down
They weave our ways to where they wish
Then laugh beneath the ground.
Life’s choices are illusory,
And false we have free will;
Oh cruel Sisters of the Tree!
Oh fickle Yggdrasil!
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