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Hail is the coldest of grains,

Which melts over my bruised flesh,

From the cloud of hornets I try to ride,

Strikes me with debris and splints,

Till the black blood flows,

As I try to conquer own demise,

Climbing on the scathing briar,

Slimy of the frozen sludge of the Norn’s barf

So I choose the road to the north,

To the barn woven with serpent’s spines,

Where every roof is soaking with venom,

To call this madness home,

Fading the good into bad,

Hand in hand with murderers,

And breakers of every oath,

Why am I the last man standing,

On the tough road, nobody wants to go,

When the hailstorm is washing away,

Everything to their bare essence,

And frenzy and mayhem,

Of majestic, desolate Hagalaz,

Following me step by step