In 1984, back home in Norway I laid my wife and friend, Helga Björn to rest, she was 21 years old. I wrote this yesterday, for her.
I was not born to play,
but to carry wood and silence.
The sun forgot our names for months,
and still we rose,
still we rose.
Is she in Heaven, where the white-robed sing?
Or in Fólkvangr, where the brave bloom again?
Or in Helheim, where memory burns slow—
a hearth of the quiet, a throne of the gone?
I will walk through all three.
I will breach every gate.
I will not rest until her hand
is in mine again.
Let the gods debate her fate—
I know only this:
She waits.
And I will come.
Wherever She Waits. I hope this is appropriate, I didn't want to create a new story.