ᚺᛁᚾ ᚺᛖᛚᚷᚨ ᚺᚱᛁᚾᛃᚨ
Hin Helga Hrynja — The sacred falling rhythm.
The way forward is clearing,
through the sacred and rapid collapse—
the collapse of all the illusions I have clung to.
None are safe.
All will crumble, one by one.
The comfort of my cage is dissolving
as I find myself at the bottom of the raging sea,
on my knees…
finally able to breathe.
finally able to speak.
finally able to cry the tears of thousands—
the tears of repression, suppression, oppression.
I am still,
as the ocean swirls around me
like a cold womb.
Like a still tomb.
I see the need for it all—
but that does not negate the pain of releasing my hold.
My fingers are bloodied
from the years of holding onto what was never mine,
as Beinomóðir slowly pries them open.
Oh, Sacred Mother…
my soul weeps in gratitude.
Thank you for not letting me stand still.
Thank you for the discomfort.
Thank you for true love. For your gifts.
I am ready now, to swing my scythe.
I am the reaper of my bloodline.
I am the reckoning they prayed for.