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Wyrd: Grendel's Lament A senile Anglo-Saxon people wrote long tales of my evil creeping from moors raiding the mead-halls of Hrothgar's Danes and crushing pagan thanes with my huge hands. I still remember Denmark, heathen land with its gods of Asguard and the kind dreams of Valhalla and fears of Muspellhiem. They called me "seed of 'Ymir" or "child of Loki"-- later they told their children I was a "descendent of Cain" I recall that Geat Earl, Beowulf, Higlac's man, who sailed across from Sweden on his own personal Ragnarok. I still feel the sharp pain as he ripped the limb that no sword even could. Remembered, we are both--In the Herot mead-hall where my are hung listless and on the tongues of scups and bards. We are remembered, as lukewarm textbook literature and stupid old myths. Christian plagiarists, who crushed more thanes than I wrote about us leaving out Odin, Freya, and Tiu. These pious scribes unabashedly added "Glory to god" and various other trite, godly sermons to our legend. The Gods die, but man lives, and as Beowulf, himself, said: "Let fate unwind as it must."
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