Surtr’s sword

Surtr fares from the south
with the scourge of branches:
the sun of the battle-gods
shone from his sword;
The crags are sundered,
the giant-women sink,
the dead throng Hel-way,
and heaven is cloven.¹

There’s something about these ancient myths that deeply fascinates me. The astonishment I feel while I’m picturing Surtr’s sword of light shining against the gloomy sky in the midst of Ragnarök’s turmoil brings me unbelievably close to any person living in a distant past – two, four, eight centuries ago –, who would read or hear the same story and get caught in exactly the same amazement.

¹Snorri Sturluson, Poetic Edda, Völuspá

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