All-Father, I feel you stirring the flock of the stagnant!

Stir, O Master of Winds : let a fresh breeze blow!

How cower the timid in a storm ; how fresh the fresh blast

Of gust in the blow of men that fires the inspiration!

Lift the too-long-staid to whirl within the wild mob,

And find upon their feet the fleeting wind of wisdom!

Errors made within the midst of rising up

May sure be cured within the rile of mobilization!

Standing still is not a life ; the crowd invokes a mobile tribe

That mocks the stolid giants, truer looters,

From whom stealing is but recompense.

Wod-Wielder, ward this upgust mob

To find its inner wisdom, sort the grain from chaff,

Set fire to the giants’ burgs, and not their fellow villagers!

Someday, like a sprouting grain, the gain

Of free associations, guilds again, shall Frodi-welcome

Back, and chase the giant thieves away! For now,

Let Robin Hood be life to stir

The wod you wield to lift the weight of dead stagnation!

Whenever I see a riot, something alive stirs inside me. My ancient tribe was a riled kind, who found their breath not in still air, but in wild gust, and pledged storm against the stagnant. It is all too philistine to knee-jerk shake one's head and voice one's disapproval. One might even say cowardly, for so conformist ; timid, for refusing to stand out ; hypocritical, for a heathen, for our ancestors were raiders, with barbarian hearts, that seldom ceased to riot against the binding nets of towns, the web of graveyards and deathly stillness. One need not give all one's approval : yet let awaken some viking spirit that finds its life in living defiance!

And will one nod one’s head at talking heads who speak for Gullveig? Will one ape the voice of banks, and shake one’s finger, filthed within the ink that stains the fiat bills? Or will one see a fist upraised, a rising stalk of grain, that only lacks for guildship to become a chasing-out of giants? Someday such as these may sense their freemen solidarity, and with newfound wisdom fight back against the bankers’ minions and their pseudo-noble hosts! The Normans still stand on Saxon soil, but Robin claims all who come to the forest. May the fires light the way to freedom!