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Beneath the Wide-Root, in weaving-shade,
the sisters of wyrd take their seat.
No thread do they thrash,
no wool do they wind,
while the bramble-biter burns low;
a peace-time is called in the shade of ash,
for the Fika of Fate has begun.
The Iron-Pot whistles on embers of oak,
wake-water bubbles within.
From the silver-steamer, the bean-blood flows,
dark as the Great-Void’s heart;
the steam-scent rises to Yggdrasil’s roof,
warming the web-weavers’ hands.
One sister sips slow,
one tastes the sweet crumb,
the third watches smoke-rings rise.
Though the Sun-chaser runs and the Sky-rim shall fall,
the black-broth is bold in the cup.
Better a hot-mug in the hand of a friend,
than a kingdom of gold without kin.