How appropriate I think, that there is no saint that holds your name
For there is no religion, nor a God, that can claim ownership of
Your loveliness.
Fiercer, nobler, braver than a Valkyrja who choose the slain and fight
With them upon the fields of their death, whisking their souls to Valhöll.
You stand above them all.
Of the muses, surely you are the queen, mother of all the songs and poems
For though they know it not, each song of beauty is a pale reflection of your
Radiance.
You have ownership of the golden apple which caused Helen of Troy such anguish
Not for her captivity in Paris's ignoble hands, but that she can never be beaut
I am the voice in the thunder shouting in anger,
The rain is my wrath as I wash you all away.
You didn't sing for me, and now to your dismay
The piercing wind has become my mighty dagger.
There will be no moon to guide you to safety
And no Sun in the morning until I have been sated.
Weep as I wash away all that you have created
And bow down worthless mortals, in honour of me.
I can hear all their prayers and their cries of sorrow
As their sons and daughters perish in the storm,
But tomorrow they praise me when safe and warm
As I send rains to cause the crops in your fields to grow.
Dance, sing, and worship me,
Or the result will be pain for a
I see a mouse, its back broken and blood dripping from its mouth.
A mouth that is, incidentally, but millimetres away from a slice of cheese.
Remember friends, that all blessings are a trap in disguise.
All good fortune bares a hidden curse.
I don't feel.
If I do feel, I don't want you to see.
Nobody likes someone who feels.
People who are sad, or angry, or lonely.
I am not one of them.
Don't inspect me too hard.
Don't stare at me.
I don't feel.
What I do feel you don't want to see it.
That is a road to discomfort.
I just stand and sit.
Laugh and talk.
Always as rigid as a post.
Hands behind my back, face rigid.
I don't feel.