Just received official notice for my thesis defence on Tuesday.
In the mean time, here's part of one of my favourite Old English riddles (trans. Craig Williamson, 1982):
A life-thief stole my world-strength
Ripped off flesh and left me skin,
Dipped me in water and drew me out,
Stretched me bare in the tight sun;
The hard blade, clean steel, cut,
Scraped--fingers folded, shaped me.
Now the bird's once wind-stiff joy
Darts often to the horn's dark rim,
Sucks wood-stain, steps back again--
With a quick scratch of power, tracks
Black on my body, points trails.
No comments:
Post a Comment