My brightly burning ice giant; god of fire,
My silver tongued lie-smith with weighted whispers—
Will you still love me on Ragnarök's byre?
When your children wage war on their elders?
For the nine realms will be nothing but chaos,
And each will sit back to watch the destruction
For none shall be able to forestall this loss,
Or find another world to which they can run.
If you say yes; that you will adore me yet…
Should I trust those lips which kiss me sweetly?
That weave such beautiful tricks, traps and nets
To trip and catch the Æsir and their army.
Tell me, if it should be my breath leaves first,
Should you take another into our bed?
Or should you deem this world to be accursed,
And wait for the fates to cut immortal thread.