Fimbulwinter
In Norse mythology, Fimbulvetr (or fimbulvinter), commonly rendered in English as Fimbulwinter, is the immediate prelude to the events of Ragnarök. It simply means ''Mighty Winter".
Summary
Fimbulvetr is the harsh winter that precedes the end of the world and puts an end to all life on Earth. Fimbulwinter is three successive winters where snow comes in from all directions, without any intervening summer. During this time, there will be innumerable wars and ties of blood will no longer be respected: the next-of-kin will lie together and brothers will kill brothers.
The event is described primarily in the Poetic Edda. In the poem Vafþrúðnismál, Odin poses the question to Vafþrúðnir as to who of mankind will survive the Fimbulwinter. Vafþrúðnir responds that Líf and Lífþrasir will survive and that they will live in the forest of Hoddmímis holt.
This mythology might be related to the extreme weather events of 535–536 which resulted in a notable drop in temperature across northern Europe. There have also been several popular ideas about whether or not this particular piece of mythology has a connection to the climate change that occurred in the Nordic countries at the end of the Nordic Bronze Age dating from about 650 BC. Before this climate change, the Nordic countries were considerably warmer.
Podcasts:
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by Windrider
Fimbulvetr
by: WindriderThe wintry Earth enshrouded in a shield of broken
leaves
As barren trees weep their last tears, and branches
break and fall
The Sun which lies so distantly upon the bleak horizon
And whistling winds bring snow and hail, like no man
can recall
The mountains offer no defense from blizzards so
malevolant
This vehemence and fury of the last great squall
Winter spirits hold your will with an icy grip
As they pull you to your dying battle under thrall
Ride, along the twisting broken trail
With sword in hand, you'll struggle forth through storm
Ride, through deepest snow and highest peaks
Spears of ice will deal the final blow
Sound the horns, grind your sword blade
This Fimbulwinter, will pave the way for war
An arrow flies through falling snow and hits its frosty
mark
The fallen warrior grips his wound, and stumbles to his
knees
His blood which flows into the snow will chill and run
as ice
His dying shout is borne away upon a breeze
No pyre built to mark his passing, no fire set nor lit
no flame
No logs are felled for funeral rites, no use for dying
trees
This maddened frenzy tears its way through villages and
towns
As battles break out all around and lifeblood starts to
freeze
Winter
The frozen moon looks down on us in shame
Winter