Dusk of the Fimbulwinter

A slow kill in the white, harsh realms,
 whence wraiths breathe thy wilted valour,
 – harbingers of a wretched hollowness –,
 akin to wintry swirls of the Unlight's chant,
 the last flickering embers of a long forsaken foe ...
 Yet, amidst bitterness thou wander the path so cold!
 Life turns into perpetual frost and frost turns to eternal rime .
 Verily, Thurses plough their malice:
 their bleak harvest, full of sorrow
 strewn about thy years,
 whilst Man weeps for the morrow
 and the morrow never nears ...
 Thither, unbound, the Wolf
 approaches from the North;
 Venoms of a final winter's
 jaws bathe the ground .
 Waging axes shatter,
 kinships perish swiftly!
 Its tempest of a myriad spoiling onslaughts,
 while Hel calls mankind to final rest:
 May keen vigour salute the utter twilight!
 Anon, it were adders drink from the feeble wounds of thine!
 Seasons forced to writher, – all virtues swept away –,
 nigh Fimbulwinter's dusk ...
 Transcendence ...
 A monumental wrath of thy Fallen ...
 Immortality ...
 At one with Vindsval's blight ...
 Serenity ...
 A mournful passing in dreadful grief ...