Flyting

My best poem yet.

The Lord is born and bests still every bard

Who know themselves masters of poetry,

Their knowing is a lie, what does it say

That Christians alone hold Art’s mastery?

The skalds would weep to see what these have wrought,

In rot and gore, their tortured letters lie.

The Muses removed to Christ’s city’s reign,

And live amongst the saints who cannot die,

Leave death behind, disorder and decay

For those who lie with pride and envys’ swine,

Will find their skills rust down to verdigris,

And crumble into dust, but those who dine,

With Christ, partake the body and the blood

Of Him who gave to man eternal life,

In love and sacrifice, these men shall find

Good Heaven’s vault is void of empty strife,

And overflowing with Kvasir’s pure mead.

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