Hear my cry, O Shieldmaidens of the Fruit of the
Gallows, unyielding expressions of the Mad God’s
paradoxical indomitable will, perfectors of heroic men
and women who make violence their life’s art,
choosers of the slain who ferry them on raven’s wing
to Óðinn’s hall where they can spend their days
in endless battles and feasting through the night
until summoned by Geirvaldr’s bright-red cock
Fjalar each dawn to do it all over again. Luck-bringers,
storm-riders, experts with every type of weapon,
deadliest of all the host that will fight on the side of
Glad of War during Ragnarök and will not stop until
the all-consuming void and the forces allied with it
are no more. I call to you, O Valkyries who ride with
Viðrir, and ask that you guide my arm so that I strike
true, winning undying fame for myself and for you
until it is my time to be taken before the Alföðr,
should that be his design.