On the island of Björkö near Stockholm was a small city, the center of a massive trading area in the 8th century. It disappeared mysteriously a hundred years later, perhaps decimated by an enemy attack. Some years ago, I spent a magical summer afternoon on this enchanting island. But in the shadows of the beauty whispered the ghosts of the past. They spoke of families fleeing across the frozen windswept lake, illuminated by the towering firestorm that was once their city. Two utterly irreconcilable experiences. My song of Birka.

Lyrics

Run child, run away For hell is coming, and hell we must pay For the Norsemen are raging, through wind and through snow With their weapons of iron, forged in the fires below Run child, the sky is burning The Hammer of Thor, the thunder of war And we’ll all be forgotten – dry dust on a hill
So now run child, run child, run far away from it all ------------------------ Come in from the cold Why you’re only nine years old Dry your tears by our fire You look so worn and so tired And sleep... ----------------------- Run child, run away The Norsemen are here and here they will stay Your father is fighting and fighting he’ll fall So run child, run child, run far away from it all Run child, I’ll love no other But you my child, now run far away No, wait, hold me, hold me! Now… slip under the wall I’ll meet you in Valhalla’s hall.