Lung-deep well, feeder of the tree/the Wyrd, weaving from the seep climbing up the roots, through Nifolham we seek/the fog-eyed Drymenn of the hunt. We come from the mountains, rain in our hair/the earth has claimed us, naked and bare long the mossy path has guided us home/the ravens' croak overhead, the green-ocean's foam. On Sleipnir's stolen back, we drive far into the wood/hear the cry of our bones we have come to wake the world with our screams/Woden, take our k**. We come from the mountains, rain in our hair/the earth has claimed us, naked and bare. Lo, the mossy path has guided us home/the ravens' croak overhead, the green-ocean's moan. We, moldweg/þone willað/úre eardlufe bedælað siððan wintera iú/ond wé, þonan/wód prútlÃce ofer lyfta gebind/hwær wé, feor oððe neah/þeah þæm beorhtan æsce findað mihte/þe, in Esangearde/þone wildene fyrnwitan. Logs of ice, snarling mouth of flame/with mist we craft, in mist we wreak our game. Lend us your tooth to carve into the gloaming tree-deep the spear thrust into our hungry roaming. We come from the mountains, rain in our hair/the earth has claimed us, naked and bare. Lo, the mossy path has guided us home/the ravens' croak overhead, the green-ocean's moan. Woden! Hyge! Myne! Woden!