Brocken Spectre

(Lyrics written for the band hvíldarlauss dauðr and their forthcoming album)




Rich descendant of its

Poor and stupid ancestors.

Hoard-obsessed giant,

Arms wide on its mountain.


“Oh yes, I am the light.

A rainbow shines out of my face.

Shadow-cast your little minds with

Crazed joy – keep you in your place.”


We are of dust and mountain rock

Crumbling like ash and powder,

Scattered about like stars

On pitch black.


Feet fused with foundations of rock,

Too much time to roar and stare.

If its face had formed, it would have

Mouth contorted in a grimaced grin.


Delirium – you’re blind to its cloud-stride,

Trembling bones at laughter’s crack,

Shivering in spatters of cold rain.

Yet the little feeble chant comes back:


You are of mist and mountain rock

Crumbling like ash and powder,

Scattered about like stars

On pitch black.


(That poor mortal tragedy,

Necks bent, shuffling in the dark.

Overshadowed by the mountain giant,

Ever crawling through the mud.)


Poor giant, as the light dims,

This light illusion blurs and breaks –

The cloud shifts, disturbed and rolling,

Pierced through by jagged peaks.


It ends, curled up, foetal,

Imagining its mother’s arms

But falling through dispersing fog

Turning to a broken ghost.

Brocken Spectre


‘Tis Beltane, where the boastful sun does go
ta battle wi’ the shady twinklin’ frost.
So gather ye ta kneel an’ quiver so,
Lest grasses thin an’ herd grows gaunt an’ lost.

Show they all, in shortened sleeves an’ looks,
Ta meadows come, beholden ta the sun.
They’s essence bulges out as tiny brooks,
An’ onward ta the salted cradle run.

See a lass, wi’ yellow flowered hair –
She will draw like waxing sun the men,
To light they’s fires an’ place they’s maypole there.
With risin’ heat, ah… raise that trunk again,

And we can twist an’ twirl our ribbon dance.
A few sips of a sweetened mushroom brew,
An’ ‘ere Queen Passion reigns our fiery prance…
Protected by a veil o’ honeyed dew.

And he who gentle cups a warmin’ hand,
To give heat to a long-preparin’ tree…
Shall see small petals, on ‘is thumb unfanned…
The fragrant blossom opens ta the bee.

Come we all ta revel, fear, an’ lust:
‘Tis Beltane, an’ we hopes the fates be just.