Home is estranged from me—. I am strong of struggle, if stilled. If I fail, they are stronger than me, and, tearing me, immediately rout, wishing to whisk away what I must ward. I may withstand them, if my tail is tough and the stones allow me to hold fast against unrelenting force. Ask what I am called. Often by day I spit spear-terror— Profits are greater when they fill me up.
At times I gobble up the inky darkness of battle weaponry, their bitter points, painful poisoned spears. I saw on a journey— S R O H proud in spirit, bright in head, running very swift over the fruitful plains. What a wonderful creature, shaped in struggle! Mottled is my mail, such bright wire draped about deadly gemstones, which my wielder gave to me, who sometimes directs my wandering self to warfare. Then I bear riches through the clear day, the handiwork of smiths, golden across their yards, Often I lay low the living with weapons of war.
A king decorates me with treasure and with silver and worthies me in the hall— not declining my wordy acclaim, mentioning my merits before the many, where they are drinking mead. Wicked, often I injure another, at the hands of his friend— I am splattered with guilt widely, accursed among weapons. I need not expect his son to be avenged upon me, on the life of a killer, if any fierce one assails me with warfare. My kindred will never be increased, my own heirs, to whom I gave birth, unless I lordless am allowed to turn away from my holder, who gave me rings.
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I am not allowed to make fucking with any woman, but he still denies me that hopeful sort of sport, who laid me long ago in fetters. Often I, daffy in decoration, exasperate a woman, make her desire wane. She speaks slander of me, flogs me with her fists, abuses me wordfully, singing wicked things about me. I care not for this contest…. I go snaffling forwards, brought from the woods, bound together with skill, borne upon a wagon—.
I keep hold of many wonders: My going forth is green on one side, and my patent track is black on the other.
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It falls to the sides, what I tear toothfully— if my leader leading from the rear serves me well, then he shall be my lord. Together there came sixty men to the shore of waves a-riding horses — there were eleven horsemen among them on proud steeds, four pale horses. Nor could these warriors ford that flood, as they found it, but the water was too deep, the thrack of waves too terrible, the banks too high, the currents too strong.
Then these men mounted upon a wagon, and their horses as well loaded under the bar. Then a single steed carried them away, horses and heroes, exulting in spears—. Yet it brought warriors across the stream, with their steeds, from the lofty bank, so that they stepped up. After my sovereign, who shaped in me that torment, lets go of my limbs, I am longer than before, until I vomit it up, a venom, baleful to all, corrupt with ruin, that I swallowed before. If what flies from my womb touches him, they purchase that wicked drink with their power, atonement fixed and full for his life.
They name me Giefu , likewise Ac and Rad. Now I am called this just as these six staves clearly betoken. I am a wonderful thing, a pleasure to women, useful to the neighbors— I am harmless to the villagers, except to my slayer alone. She feels my fucking right away, she who approaches me, a woman with braided locks.
Her eye will be wet—.
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A special enemy stole away my life — seizing my worldly strength, wetting me afterwards, dipping me in water, doing it soon— set me in the sun, where I lost what hair I had. The hard edge of a knife scraped me afterwards, polishing away the extras. Fingers folded me, and the delight of fowl made a track of me frequently across the useful drops over the brown margins—I swallowed the ink of trees, shared in their streams—black tracks stepped across me as they made journey.
Some hero covered me afterwards with sheltering boards, stretched with skin, garnished me with gold. Therefore the wondrous work of smiths fretted my face, clasped in filigree. Now may these mysteries and rubrications and these glorious accoutrements exalt far and wide the Helmet of Noble Peoples—they are not at all the pains of fools— If the children of men wish to enjoy me, they shall be the more secure and the more certain of victory, the braver in their hearts and the more mind-blithe, the wiser in their spirit. They will have more allies, more cherished and more united, truer and better, kindlier and more kindred—these will augment their grace and fortune with mercy, and keep them clasped with love and support, and hold them fast in embraces of affection.
Ask what I am called, of service to humanity, My name is widely known— well-wanted by men, and am myself holy. I am worthied by men, found widely, brought from the groves and from the hillsides, from the valleys and the peaks. Men afterwards bathe me in a tub. Now I am the binder and the beater— at once I cast a servant to the earth, sometimes an old churl. At once he discovers, who struggles against me and with violence he grapples with mine— foolishly he shall seek the earth with his back, if he does not desist.
Robbed of strength, strong in his speech, benumbed of his ability, he has no control of his mind, feet or hands. Ask what I am called, who so binds my slaves upon the earth, dizzy after the dint, the morning after. They enjoy their pleasures and no one talks, and then after death they make pronouncements, declaring many things. It is a burden to ponder for wisdom-thick men, what this creature might be. Then came another amazing thing over the roofing cliffs, she is well-known by all earth-dwellers— then she recovered all that booty, and hurried him homewards, the wretch against his will, departing from there into the west the unfolding of their feuds, driven forwards.
Dust scattered to heaven. Dew fell upon the earth. Night passed on its way home. No man afterwards knew the course-way of those creatures. Riddle 30[a] I am flame-busy, I flicker with the wind, wound with glory, welded to the weather,. Is there anything in this middle-earth so variously fashionly, so beautifully-wrought, so adorned with jewels? Yet anxious to flutter, it starts to act, chosen craftily, it frequently turns often and again, in nobbing of nobles.
It sits at the banquet, biding its time, when it may reveal its skill unto men on the plain.
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Bold, eager for glory, it survives speechless. Yet a lovely noise is in its foot, an elaborate gifting song. It seems wonderful to me how this thing. It is a big accomplishment for a wise bearer of songs to consider what this creature might be.
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Marvelous in motion, I saw this machine gyring, grinding against the gravel, yelling out as it went forward. Useful to mankind, it ferries a wealth of food, laboring for the people, carrying a banquet within,.
Articulate, if you know how, you wise and keen of word, what this creature might be. Creature came amazing, sailing upon the waves, splendid above the keel, calling out to land, resounding loudly—her laughter was fearful terrifying in its home. Her blades were sharp. She was hatefully grim, creeping to battle, a bitter battle-work—she carved into shield-walls, a hardened ravager, malevolent secrets bound, she spoke with crafty caprice, about her own creation:.
I spotted a creature in the houses of men, she nourishes the cattle, has many teeth— nose useful to her, going along downward, ravening loyally and tugging towards home, roaming beyond the walls, seeking worts. She makes them stand still, those rooted fast, in the place they are established, shining brightly, blowing and growing. There is no wound woof in me, nor do I have a warp, nor through the violence of the troop does the thread hum for me.
The snoring shuttle does not glide through me, nor must the staff strike me on any part. Yet nonetheless someone wishes to call me a joyful garment for warriors the world over.
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Say in true speaking, keen with cunning thoughts, wise in word-play, what this garment might be. I saw a creature heading upon the waves— it was beautifully arrayed, wonderfully. It had four feet beneath its belly and eight upon its back —a man homo a woman mulier a horse equus — it had two wings and twelve eyes and six heads. Say what it might have been. It fared the flood-ways—it was not just a bird— yet there was the likeness of each one, a horse and a man, a hound and a bird, and also a lovely woman. You do know how to say it, if you possess the power, what we know to be the truth— what was the course of that creature.
I saw these things—their belly was behind them, swollen-up splendor. Its servant followed, a powerfully eager man, and a great deal had it endured what it experienced— flying through its eye. He let them go, his own reward. If he shatters, he shall bind the living. Scriptures say what this creature might be, among mankind, through the many seasons patent and visible. She has a unique skill much greater than men can conceive.
She wishes to seek out, one by one, every soul-bearing thing, then she departs on her way. She has neither soul nor spirit, yet must labor widely on her way, throughout the miraculous world.
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She has neither blood nor bone, yet it is a comfort to the many children across this middle-earth. She has never touched heaven, nor may she touch hell, yet it must live, long-enduring, by the precepts of the Glory-King—. Every bit of this is true— what can be betokened wordfully about that creature. If you can speak out the solution swiftly in true words, say what she is called. I am so scared that a skittering ghost, boldly ready, could terrify me— yet I am in other places braver than the boar, when it, ire-swollen, makes its stand— nor can any standard-bearer vanquish me across the earth, except God alone, who keeps and rules this high heaven.
I smell much stronger than frankincense or any rose might be… buried in the sod, joyously growing up.