The Noise

They say Valhalla has a roof of shields

above a room that never settles.

I have never once been drawn

to a place where nobody's shouting.

The noise.

Horns of mead going all the way down

and everyone already arguing,

and a seat kept for me down the end.

The men I fed to the raven

will be sitting there when I walk in,

half of them still carrying

the exact wound I gave them,

and we will settle it properly

and then drink together after.

The noise.

No ploughing and no harvest.

Nobody asking after the yield.

Just the whole crowd of us, going.

The noise —

they will want us all at Ragnarök

and I intend to be available,

and if there's nothing over there,

then hear what I did with the meantime.