At long last, the time has come...
Garm bays loudly before Gnipa-cave,
the rope will break and the ravener run free.
Much wisdom she knows, I see further ahead
to the terrible doom of the fighting gods.
Brother will fight brother and be his slayer,
brother and sister will violate the bond of kinship;
axe-age, sword-age, shields are cleft asunder,
wind-age, wolf-age, before the world plunges headlong;
no man will spare another.
The sons of Mim are at play and fate catches fire
at the ancient Gjallar-horn;
Heimdall blows loudly, his horn held aloft.
Othinn speaks with Mim's head.
Yggdrasill shudders, the tree standing upright,
the ancient tree groans and the giant is loose;
all are terrified on the roads to hell,
before Surt's kin swallow it up.
What of the Aesir? What of the elves?
All Giantland groans. The Aesir are in council.
The dwarfs howl before their rocky doors,
the princes of the mountain wall—do you understand yet, or what more?
In the air gapes the Earth-girdler,
the terrible jaws of the serpent yawn above;
The son of Othinn must meet the serpent;
the kin of Vidar is the death of the wolf.
The sun turns black, earth sinks into the sea,
the bright stars vanish from the sky;
steam rises up in the conflagration,
a high flame plays against heaven itself.
There comes the dark dragon flying,
the shining serpent, up from Dark-of-Moon Hills;
Nidhogg flies over the plain, in his wings