The Making of Angrist by Zdenka  

Chapter 1

Telchar

Blow, my bellows, blustering wind!
Flame of my forge, burn fierce and bright.
Lend me, Mahal, might and wisdom,
strengthen my arm to strike with force.

A matchless blade must I fashion—
friendship seeks it, friendship grants it—
hewing in twain hell-wrought iron,
a knife so sharp no sheath holds it.

Curufin

Well-made the work and worth its price,
its cutting edge keen as sorrow,
eager to bite the black iron
and Morgoth’s crown cleave asunder.

Hard be my heart as hammered steel,
sharp my spirit as sheathless blade,
until my hand holds in its grasp
threefold fire, our father’s light.

Chapter End Notes

The meter of these lines is fornyrðislag, an alliterative verse form used in the Poetic Edda.