Thursday, April 24, 2008

A Riddle: Braggart

I am memory of Spring when sharp
Rain rests cold on leaves under foot;
Like wanting,
Or darkness
When there is no fire
To search the white ashes.
In the Hall among Heroes,
Onlookers pressing close,
I snake among them.
I steal comfort at hearth.

My mother turns away from me.
She taught me no pride.
Beloved not of braced comrades,
Wisdom lacking,
I fail
To bind word with deed.
Mother laughed when I did wrong,
Raging, hawk-like, when I faltered.
My father took ship, too often.

Stealing becomes my fastness.
I put forth my hoard, ill gathered.
Men who take ship with me
Prefer shallows.
Listen to me!
Horns of brass,
Clash of shields,
Dust raised and leaves scattered,
Crowds gather to view my eminence.
Sun glints more from eye than from my metal.
Say my name!

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