I sing of Máni of the crescent blade
whirled in lethal rapture during his martial dance
faster than eye can follow and sharp as desire,
good for cutting the throats of foes,
striker of vital organs and splitter of sinews
and bone, tested and found true
against God and Giant, Dragon and Dwarf,
Elf and man and countless others
who would threaten the harmonious order
the son of Mundilfari was charged
with upholding by Allfather Óðinn.
He crashes through the pitched line
astride his dun steed, howling his battlesong
as the stalwart scatter and scream or are trampled
in the muddy field washed with streams
of black blood shed by the Warlord in White.
Hail Máni, savage defender of the radiant walls
of all-holy Ásgarðr which shall not fall
so long as the Good God draws breath.