Who am I,
But a quiet shepherd,
For and of the lost,
Pushing their blindness,
To Mimir’s polluted pool,
Where presence is enough,
To silence their bleated confusion,
And wet the tongues,
Of those who have found themselves,
Parched,
Along with the words to beg:
“Father may we drink,
So that we might taste solace?”
But only the Urd-drinker will see,
The crack of the crook,
Bearing the weight of above,
Down on the nape of the child,
Who came to know too late,
Where we were headed.
I’ll clean my hands in the well-water,
To wash away the sins that aren’t my own,
Before climbing back up through the roots of undergrowth,
With persistence echoing in every step forward,
My answer to the question of why,
Swirling like a tide around me:
I am the silent shepherd,
The guide of the blind,
And teacher of the deaf,
Their fate they do not yet know,
But that for which they long.