May my words be pleasing to you, O gracious Sigyn,
as once your words were pleasing to Loki’s son Váli
when he returned from playing in the golden groves of Iðunn
with a bruise on his knee, grass and leaves stuck to his clothes,
cheeks pink and damp from tears and blue-grey eyes 
full of confusion and hurt. After hugging him tight
you brushed him clean, took out your lunchbox
with ladybugs on it, and sat him down on your lap.
He seemed so small and fragile then, and you would
protect him from all that the Nine Worlds hold if you could,
but some things are beyond even the power of the Gods.
You bid him tell his story and it seemed he had been playing tag
with Þórr’s boys Móði and Magni, Kōmos, the son of Óðr and Freyja,
his older sisters Hnoss and Gersemi, and Váli the giant child
of Óðinn and Rindr who was foreordained to avenge
his fallen brother Baldr (even though Loki had not yet
sharpened the dart of mistletoe.) Without provocation
the burden of Rindr’s arms flew into a fury, pushed little Váli
to the ground and when he staggered to his feet got all of
the other children to give chase, shouting horrible things at him
until they had hounded the boy to the boundary-marker
of his father’s property and into the arms of his mother.
Wise Sigyn, you spoke to your son until you had
broken the fetters of his sorrow and were rewarded
with a chubby-cheeked grin and musical laughter.
You opened your lunchbox full of treasures rivaling
anything a Dvergr has ever crafted, and allowed
your Váli to draw out whatever he pleased. He chose
a diamond-shaped bullroarer gifted you by Óðr
and a little red rubber ball that also came from him.
With these trinkets all his pain, humiliation and rage
were forgot, and he toddled off to play by himself.
Sigyn, likewise I pray, speak the words that cut through anger
and bring us back to our rational senses, and help us not
to be cruel or to needlessly prejudge others.