Odin sat by the crossroads, a nap sack was strung on his shoulder, he was singing:"And now he's blown it; upside down; And hell's the only sound, We did an awful job, And now we're just a little too late." His eyes were full of desire, and his mind was ill at ease.
He dragged a stick in the dirt.
He was growing cold; to keep warm he remembered a fire in the hearth. He remembered smoke filling the hall with pleasant aromas of cooked meat: bear, rabbit, fox, and deer.
He remembered the relationship he use to have with the various Celtic tribes: a time his poetry was searched before big events,
"what does Odin say might happen today. I was the gate to victory and plenty in the hunt. What happened to the magic I use to bestow...are the conotations just dust blowin' in the wind? I wish it did not hurt so much to lose sight of my people!"
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