This is a poem. Poetry IS considered manly, so do not think for one moment that I am going soft. Poetry can not only express love and understanding; but hatred, war, and death. Although the first is much more pleasant, it is not stereotypical of males to write, read, or think of such things. This is dedicated to all who came before us, the brave, the young, and the foolish, who were to noble to stop, but too young to understand. The Viking King salutes these galiant soldiers of years before, for, if they had not touched our hearts and ignited our passions for bettering ourselves, we might not even be writing this today. Thank you for reading not only the poem, but also my vague ramblings that you wouldn't understand unless you knew who I really was, or went through what I went through.

Poem of a depressed Viking...

Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow. I am diamond glints on the snow.
I am sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the moring's hush, I am the swift up lifting rush,
Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die.

-By Some Wise Norwegian

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