Author’s note: I’ve been reading Beowulf. That should prepare you, right?

I sit in my borrow and breathe in the salty air.
My child, my only child, he goes a-hunting again.
That May so long ago, I should have brought
The hawthorn to the hall.
Better luck it would have been
Than the shadow with which I danced.
My sweet wolf-cub, you have your father’s tastes,
The moss was red, on the ground where we lay.
He gave me his sword, heirloom for our child,
A dagger to keep as mine, both tainted
With his kind’s touch. How thankful can my heart be;
I bore no daughter to, like me, foolish me,
Chase shadow in the warm night’s air.
He up and left us like grey smoke,
My monstrous babe and I, having to hide from the world.
I was a fair-haired maid once, my eyes shone too bright.
Now under a lake we hide, my child and I.
My babe, you call for me, who wounded you in the arm?
Your blood has painted the path to our home,
Oh, what shall I do?

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