Those are the adventures of Mr. Fimbulmyrk, in bushcraft and blacksmithing, mountainbiking and hiking, reenactment, writing, singing, dancing, stargazing and having a piece of cake and a coffee. Pray have a seat and look around you, but be warned - the forest´s twilight is ferocious at times.
Nether brush and thicket, by the sizzling creek, stems the path into the twilight like a branch from olden trees.
Along the mane of ancient moss leads the trail to yonder green.
Am I small or am I of giant breed, am I a seed beneath the rotting leaves? Am I waiting, dancing, circling deeper, deeper, lower still?
Thus rise the star of sunlight behind my brow, awhilst I go into the realm of twilit trails.
Spirit wood of treesprite realm, open up thy cold embrace, warm still in the sunlight of a fading year.
Nether thicket, brush and tree, treads my foot light and free, into the realm and yonder still.
And song and thought and tale and lore stay silent in the forest´s hall; silently I thread my way, along a path of ancient dance.
Sing of the blossoms of spring hidden in their rout; sing of the autumn scent awaken in the wind.
From beneath the deep and dark the spirit of the mycel is rising to nourish the beasts and man with the twilight´s flesh; thus like is death, and we are mushrooms blooming from the abyss of our soul.
And even if the sun may shine upon our dance, so does the star in the abyss, the root of the mountain, ice-cold and brighter as a sun in its own right, our soul. And as the mushrooms rise violently in autumn, so does that soul rise up to life, blooming with flower and tree and beast and man, rising like waters from a broken dam.
Death is not, so fear not fading. The mouse, fallen from the fangs of the bird of prey, hit hard the ground and fell into the sleep of death, and maggots will eat the flesh and get rid of mortality, yet life will spring up with a new time of year.
Sleep well, my little friend, and dream a crystal tear, and may you be rested.
In the Golden Halls beneath the ground, where the sun will sleep in winter, fairy tales are born anew.
Dark will become the land, and yet not dark.
For in the darkest of all hours, the light is born anew.
Moss grows upon the warlike fox´s skull; may his spirit guide the little mouse into the golden caverns where hunt and feast reign eternal.
Sleeping under the hawthorne, beyond my feeble humanity, I rise to see the sun sinking, dying for but an hour, for but a second, and smile.
Sleep not under the hawthorn, they say, or alien you will be for your fellow humans. But the hornet preys on the dragonfly, and the hunt is eternal in this time of year.
So may thou sink, sun, beloved of the summer earth, and may the harvest be rich.
And to all you out there:
Have a good harvest, a lovely autumn, and good memories of a great summer gone by.