He plunged head first into the dust, bone snapped in half,
the arm torn from the body, he fell backwards,
the head hung by the skin, the blood-warm spearhead,
killing his daylight, piercing him below the ear.

His head split clean in two, eyes filled with blood,
he fell flat on the ground, night fell on him. A stone
cut through his temples, eyes crashed at his feet.
The clawing horse cried out, his spirit flew.

The helmet, yet unscratched, swiftly the god
flung from his head, horsehair and feathers in the mire,
the spear ran in the groin, the soul the body fled.

Skewering heel and ankle, to the wheel the strap
him ties, spreading dark lustrous hair splattered with mud.
To read is a delight, to live a dreadful lot.

Translation: Ko Kooman