The Second World

The red tears of Midgard flood the plains, wash over grass and turn the seas into fire - the gods stand by in ordinary clothes and fill the air with light. My frozen hands grow cold, my mouth is silent - the world around me grows still, the wind slows and the sky is like a stone. Mutiny spreads her silver wings, and sacrifices the alms of mortality on the table of innocence with the pounding of a sceptre.