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Chris Bahn
224 posts
When the ashes remember the fire.
In the far north, where the mountains whisper with eternal frost in their voices,
once lay a world spun of ash and fire, of blood and honey.
Yggdrasil stretched its roots through nine worlds,
and the gods lived as they had always lived – free, wild, true.
Then came the white sails.
Next to the old tree a new tree was planted, a tree without roots - shaped like a cross!
A thousand years slid over the land like slow snow.
The colors faded. Odin was forced into silence. Thor was forced to kneel. Freya was forced to smile under a foreign name.
For 1000 years the Norse faith was painted in pale tones,
but no matter how many layers they painted, they couldn't make it disappear. It only waited under a thin veil.
Now the wait is over.
First there was a quiet tremor in the earth beneath our feet.
Yggdrasil stirred. A root reached deeper. A leaf unfolded – greener, older, stronger.
The wind changed. It no longer carried just the scent of incense,
but the smell of pine, of salt, of iron and earth that remembers.
The old faith is slowly returning.
Not with shouts. Not with flaming torches.
It's returning like moss growing on stone,
like the northern lights slowly filling the night sky again after a long period of darkness.
Odin, who has been sleeping, opens one eye.
He looks out over the land without anger, without haste.
He has waited long. Now he takes back what was always his:
the wisdom that cannot be tamed,
the runes that never completely disappeared from our blood.
Thor raises his hammer again.
Not to strike, but to awaken.
Every time the thunder rolls over the mountains,
more and more people hear the true voice in the roar:
not a plea for forgiveness, but a recognition.
Mjölnir knocks silently in the chest of those who listen - the spark of life!
Freya casts aside her white veil.
Her golden glow returns – not hidden, not ashamed,
but open and natural as the light of a summer night.
Her love flows freely again through the forests and valleys,
wild, honest, with no chains.
The stave churches still stand, but the dragons on the roof raise their heads higher.
They no longer look down in shame. They look out over the mighty fjords with calm strength.
The runes that were hidden,
now emerge of their own accord, clear, inevitable.
The old faith returns.
Slower than melting ice, more certain than the seasons.
It needs no permission. It needs no fight.
It just is.
Like the blood that has always remembered.
Like the earth that has always waited.
A thousand years of foreign color have not erased it.
They only put a thin layer over the original pattern.
Now the paleness is peeling away of itself like old paint,
and beneath it the old shines again:
blood and ash, honey and fire,
freedom and honesty and power that never bowed down.
Today, when the northern lights dance extra brightly over the quiet fjords, Yggdrasil stands there in full view – not next to the cross, not under it, but in its own right, rooted and alive.
Then the gods will not laugh loudly or triumphantly.
They will simply be there again, as they have always been:
calm,
confident,
at home.
The Norse soul never became completely white.
Now it's again what it was meant to be.
Wild.
Colorful.
Honest.
Alive.
And this time – it stays.
English
Morning scribbles, 40 hours into a water fast. Soon I will test my current abilities with a more complex composition
English
