306. The Listeners ( Twelfth Night )
By a small makeshift altar, in the dead silence, they are listening.
At the altar, lit by candlelight, they are straining to hear every word,
Despite the absence of anyone living for your words to be heard.
Lost ancestors, friends, and loved ones, stand with us side by side,
They feast with us, drink with us, and walk with us stride by stride.
They watch us carefully, judge whether we have kept to our troth,
Listen to every word we speak, as though it were a sacred oath.
On the evening of the Twelfth Night, the dead on Midgard still roam,
Their last night in our blue world, before they return to their home.
Summoned by the Yule season, the deceased are directed by our call,
And it is onto their long dead ears, that our oaths and pledges fall.
As we stand before our altars, and give the Gods our sacred pledge,
The dead can't be seen, are out of sight, live well beyond the edge.
Behind these specters hovers Var listening intently to all we swear,
For the Goddess of the Oath will hold us to every word we declare.
- Glenn Bergen, ( Ravensheart ), © Copyright, 2015.