18 May 2012
The Friday wife,
Knower of all
But withholder of all she knows,
Crying tears,
Eighteen carat gold,
For the source of all her woes.
A beloved son,
So fair of face,
Flawless in every way,
Felled by his
Achilles' heel
One fateful shooting day.
All were sworn
Him not to harm
Save the mistletoe.
Innocent,
Ever so small
White as mountain snow,
But Loki found
The fateful sprig.
Hod lodged it in his heart
And Hel will not
Release him, now
From Asgard set apart.
As only one god
Will not mourn
He is doomed to stay
And Frigga cries
Her golden coins
Until Hel's gates give way.
Frigga • Opuss № I