I stand, erstwhile pacing,

oft sitting.

I laugh at the trumpery scattered about the hus.

I look to left, and riht.

The eald door, scatched with age,

Reminds me of my brodor.

And I, a wifmann,

Call, find no andswarain,

And face the great aglæca.

I step about, sweord in hand,

bæl and sceadu effuse from it.

The great aglæca.

Sefa, my Sefa, it pounds in the cavern,

The cavern of my chest.

At long last sige!

And yet I stand, erstwhile pacing,

and oft sitting.

I want to be free, but they tell me to hither here and thither there. The elders are considered wizened, but to me they are shriveled. I am told to hunt for scaup, or buy some pannikins. I go out and once I have reached the ness, I am free, to an extent. I always end up returning to these hags. I've been told that they are great soothsayers and can read palms, but to me their existence is absolute trumpery. If they are legends, then I am the stalwart Beowulf. I shall forswear these banshees' commands. I cachinnate, and just like that, I find myself in a dray that is going to the city. I am free... for now.