#bæn

[spikyseasponge]

the perfect fit

[askgmangraves]

Hart bæn brocken so manay tæmes 💔💔💔💔

Sucks to be you I can't relate

[k66-official]

👺 whas hoping Frogish would incredible pose on Top of pole, LIKE ME!!!!! I aem vory handsome Tengu. 👺 Bůt Snobby Tengu's curse haþ bæn lifted from Kroggish. -👺

...are those feathers on the floor? That's... Very odd.

[fandenselv]

Gratulere med dagen Jarle Valle - Det Pene Bæn Live i Folken desember 1991

[human-antithesis]

Ek sá halr at Hóars veðri hǫsvan serk Hrísgrísnis bar

Ek sá halr at Hóars veðri hosvan serk Hrísgrísnis bar.

(Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, Háleygjatal 6)

Hinn, es varp á víða vinda ondurdísar of manna sjot margra munnlaug foður augum.

(Bragi inn gamli Boddason, Fragments 2)

Vel hafið ydrum eykjum aptr, Þrívalda, haldit simbli sumbls of mærum, sundrkljúfr níu hofða.

(Bragi inn gamlí Boddason, Fragments 3)

Enn sem hangatýr fleygði sínum fleygigeyr um folk, dýr valkastar báru meyjar losnuðu frá. Sem ek nálgask Stiklastaði, mín dokkvu hvarma skógar stjornur nema við þúsundir dólg fangs buri markaða tákni Hvíta Krists. Ek he- yrði bardagaópið 'Knýjum, knýjum fram Krists men, Krossins men ok konungs men!' Margr maðr hóf aðgongu til bardaga sem eigi gat unnisk. Sem orrustan gegn óteljandi heiðum bændum brausk út, ek heyrði margan randar glaums þoll falla sem limar þeirra ok hofuð voru klofin fljúgandi vandar valsendum. Ok þó, bardagaópið ómaði um dalinn allann 'Knýjum, knýjum fram Krists men, Krossins men ok ko- nungs menn!'

Ort vas Óleifs hjarta; óð framm konungr - blóði rekin bitu stól - á Stiklar stoðum, kvaddi lið boðvar. Éiþolla sák alla Jolfuðs nema gram sjalfan

reyndr vas flestr í fastri fleindrífu - sér hlífa.

(Þormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld, Lausavísur 23)

Blendusk við roðnar und randar himmi; Skoglar veðr léku við ský of bauga. Umðu oddláar í Óðins veðri; hné mart manna fyr mækis straumi.

(Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, Hákonarmál 8)

Sortnar himinn ok rennr rauðr sem Óláfr þiggr margan sárelds spora af andstæðum Yggjar runni. er vængir hrafns ævinnar fylkjask um Dana hloð, ek heyrði minn bróðr til einskis fram mæla:

Hoggum hjaltvond, skyggðum, hœfum rond með brandi, reynum randar mána, rjóðum sverð í blóði. Stýfum Þóri af lífi, leikum sárt við bleikan, kyrrum kappa errinn komi orn á hræ, járnum.

(Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 39)

Enn sem vápnum beitt gegn beittum heiptar- tungum, gjallar vendir ok hræþolls gandar sku- lu fylgja eptir þeim fljúgandi hrælinni, ok stin- ga til jarðar sverðverjandi niða mínum. Regn ok þrumuský byrgja smám saman sýn Hugins niðja, ok ek fell til jarðar. Um grímuna, er hvítir faldar Báleygs brúðar hefja for sína undir silfr brá himinsins, fer ek ráfandi at dauða dalnum. Ek hvísla ok sé hvar hinir dauðu nú þegar skiljask frá lifendum, ok eygji skert skarar land míns bróðrs á oddbreka grundu. Ek lyfti hans Hamðis geyr ok byrðar stalli með mínum straumtungls mjúkstalli ok tek at hvísla bón fyrir hans lífi ok afkomu. Hans brúnar steinar opnask ok beinask at mér sem ek mæli. Hann hvíslar hinstu bæn hins Hvíta Krists svo hann megi inngongu hljóta í fjorbrots land áðr sjórnir hans lokask um eilífð. En sem ek lít upp, inn í dauðadalinn á ný, sé ek hann aðeins ráfandi stefnulaust inn til skuggalanda. Gullin tár falla mér úr drjúpandi þungu hofði, er ek geng aptr að grana mínum, sem ek eitt sinn bauð velko- minn til Báleygs brúðar.

English: And That Man Wore The Grey Shirt Of Hrísgrísnir In The Storm Of Hóarr.

And that man wore the grey shirt of Hrísgrísnir in the storm of Hóarr.

(Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, Háleygjatal 6)

The one who threw the eyes of the father of the ski-dís into the wide hand-basin of winds above the dwellings of many men.

(Bragi inn gamli Boddason, Fragments 2)

You have well driven back your draught animals, cleaver asunder of the nine heads of Þrívaldi, ab- ove the famous drink-provider of the drinking party.

(Bragi inn gamli Boddason, Fragments 3)

But as Óðinn threw the spear into the people, animals of war came loose. As I approach Stik- lastaðir, my blackened eyes catch thousands of warriors marked with the sign of White Christ. I hear the battle cry "Forward, forward, Christ's men, cross's men, king's men!"

Óláfr's heart was energetic; the king pressed for- ward Stiklastaðir, rallied his host to battle; steel weapons inlaid with blood bit. I saw all the firs of the storm of Jolfuðr shelter themselves except the leader himself; most were tested in the ceaseless missile-blizzard.

(Þormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld, Lausavísur 23)

Red colours mingled beneath the sky of the shield-rim; the storms of Skogul played against the clouds of shield-rings. Point-waves roared in the storm of Óðinn; many people sank down be- fore the tide of the sword.

(Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, Hákonarmál 8)

Many men begin to march towards a battle that cannot be won. As the battle against countless pagan farmers emerges, I hear many trees fall as their branches and heads are cut by flying spe- ars. And still, the battle-cry echoes through the valley: "Forward, forward, Christ's men, cross's men, king's men!" The sky darkens and turns red as Óláfr receives many a wound from opposing forces. When wings of darkness approach the king, I hear my brother cry out in vain:

Let polished hilt-wands clash, strike shields with brands, test our swords' shine on shields, redden them with blood. Hack Þórir's life away, play the pale man foul, silence the troublemaker with iron, feed eagle flesh.

(Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 39).

But as weapons oppose the fierce tongue of an- ger, swords and axes follow the lead of the flying spear and pierce the sword-wielding member of my kin to the ground. Rain and thunderclounds start to limit the view of the raven and I fall to the ground. At nighttime when the white dress of the earth starts to move under the silver eye of the sky. I wander below to the valley of the dead. I whisper and see where the dead already start to isolate from the living and espay the ruined body of my brother on the blood ground. I lift his head and shoulders with my hands and begin to whisper pleas for his life to survive. His eyes are opened and fixed on me as I speak. He whispers a last prayer to the White Christ to grant him entrance to the land of the dead before he shuts his eyes forever. But as I look up into the valley of the dead again, I only see him wander aimless- ly into a land of shadows. Golden tears fall from my heavy head as I walk back to my horse I once welcomed to this world.

[mnaasilveira]

Fatima, 13. Maí 1917

______________________________________________________________ ______________________________________________________________ Ég fæddist á Azoreyjum í Portúgal og fór til meginlandsins í herþjónustu. Ég heimsótti Fatimu árið 1975, þjónaði í einni messu og baðst fyrir á birtingarstaðnum. Fyrsta birting Maríu mey átti sér stað 13. maí 1917 og boðskapur hennar var umbreyting, iðrun og bæn. Hún…

[brutlist-archive]

Heughs toxic trait is eating leftovers straight out of the container with his fingera after its been left in the fridge over night

[dovesnest]

u should get a free prozac with every two cans of baked beans u buy .

[nofatclips-home]

Bæn einstæðingsins covered by Árstíðir, live in a shopping mall

[mushiimune]

bæn

[tinuvijela]

Alright, as a considerate person that I am, I'm gonna start ˈraɪtɪŋ laɪk ðɪs səʊ ðæt ˈɛvrɪwʌn kæn ˌʌndəˈstænd miː dɪsˈpaɪt ðə wɜːd bæn

[purplexiasphinx]

bæns

[human-antithesis]

Sem járnklær nætr dragask nærri

Sem járnklær nætr dragask nærri, long haukstrond viðar ok kastar heljar hittir fyrir þær mikilfenglegu gáttir þeirra þróttar þings holls, er engan tók enda. Gneistar gneifðu ok margr halr safnaðisk um alls viðar her í þeim andans dal er ek kalla heima. Gegnum hvískrandi nið skýja gandrs, Landvættir mik kalla út at berja loganda dal augum. Villtr dans bræða markar meinþjófs, Hogna meyjar viðs. Deyjandi glæður mæta stjornum ofan þegar þær mæta gæsku Vidda bróðrs. Með grosin græn ok brúnan svorð undir mínum ilkvistum ek geng at megin stað átrúnaðar. Þórr ok Týr, Freyr ok Ullr, Ek veit þér eruð oss næs á þessar- ri helgu nótt Ísa brots komu. Svo háir eru jotna vegir Fornjóts sona, ok svo breið eru vápnagjoll at flæða skal úr Háars saltunnu. Minn ennis- máni nam sjá Hákon goði í fjarska, kalladi at manna sjotnum. Með Yggjar éls bál reisk í hendi ek heyrða ræða svo hatrsramma. Klæddr í brúnsvort klæði krýpr krúnrakaðr maðrinn, með heift, frammi fyrir goðanum. Hrafnkell, hið unga skáld ok fylgjandi munka dróttins hefr verið leiðandi í vorri byggð.

Svá skyldu goð gjalda, gram reki bond af londum, reið sé rogn ok Óðinn, rán míns fjár hánum. Fólk mýgi lát flýja, Freyr ok Njorðr, af jordðum. Leiðisk lofða stríði landáss, þann er vé grandar.

(Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 28)

Morðsólar veik máli meiðir; sinnar leiðar gekk ramms hotuðr rekka rógs í þorp ór skógi. Menfergir vas margan móthress í bœ þessum vetr, ok vann til mætrar vargnistir sér bjargar.

(Anonymous Poems, Plácitusdrápa 29)

Hrafnkell lýtr niðr at dolkbrands dokkvri grun í bljúgri bæn. Með handar tjolgr uppreistar. Honum er kastað í sand-hvítan fórnar pytt laussra líkama. Hrafnkels fljúgandi tunga biðr friðar sem þó aldrei kemr.

Þjód á hart, sús hlýða hildings boðum vildat lofða kyns meðan lifði, lýtum kend fyr hendi. Sú rasar aum í aumar óvísligar píslir; ey grœtir þar ýta uggr, en vætki huggar.

(Gamli kanóki, Harmsól 38)

Fynk þola flæðar auknir fleygjendr þrimu leygjar

þar liggr elds á oldum íma - frost með bríma. Morgs onnur þar manna meiri ógn ok fleira angr, an ór megi tunga, óvegs, frá því segja.

(Gamli kanóki, Harmsól 39)

En sem tunga hans flograr um múgin sem kallar upp af hatri ok sorg, sækir morðbálið leið sína at hvítum skýjum Hranfkels sjónar bergs. Sem Hákon dregr fram pínt Heimdallar hofuð, skal hin lærða tunga fylgjara hins bjarta manns ór suðri ekki fleiðra meir. Landa andar, Háars þeg- nar dýrra ríkja, hvar er sá friðr er ek heyrði at mundi stafa af handa gapmunni Heimdallar er ek kom í dal þenna fyr longu síðan? Myrk er sú tíð komandi, ok verjendr anda landa leiða hana á brott úr þeim stað sem nú er roðinn logðis lodda logleysunnar.

English: As The Iron Claws Of Night Draw Near

As the iron claws of night draw near, the long hands of wood and fire meet before the majestic doors of never ending houses of trees. Sparks fly and many men are gathered around holy fires in this spiritual val- ley I call home. Through whispering sounds of the wind, I am called out by Landvættir to behold a valley alight before my eyes. A wild dance of brothers to the fire giant with trees. Dying embers meet the stars above when they meet the kindness of the wind. Blades of green, grounds of brown, both of them are beneath my feet as I walk below towards the centre place of whorship. Þórr and Tyr, Freyr and Ullr, I know you are near to us on this holy night of the ar- rival of spring. So high are the moutains of fire, and so wide the blood must flow out of the bowl. My eyes see Hákon goði from afar, shou- ting towards the village. With the sacrifical knife raised, I hear a speach so hateful. Clad in brown-black cloths, a tonsured man knees acri- moniously before the goði. Hrafnkel, young poet and follower of the god of the monks, has been a leading figure in our community.

Let the gods banish the ruler, pay him for stealing my wealth, let him incur the wrath of Óðinn and the gods. Make the tyrant flee his lands, Freyr and Njorðr; may Þórr the land-god be angered at his foe, the defiler of his holy place.

(Egill Skallagrímsson, Lausavísur 28)

The destroyer of the war-sun broke off his speech; the hater of the fierce strife of men went his way from the forest into a village. The batt- le-fierce neckring-destroyer was many a winter in that town and the wolf-feeder earned a good living.

(Anonymous Poems, Plácitusdrápa 29)

Hrafnkel bows down to the blood ground of worship. With hands raised, he is thrown into our hallowed sand-white sacrificial pit of released bodies. Hrafnkel's flying tongue prays for a peace that never comes.

The group of people, known for sins, who would not heed the commandments of the prince of the race of men while it lived, faces hardship. It rushes wretched into wretched, uncertain tor- tures; fear grieves people there perpetually, and nothing affords comfort.

(Gamli kanóki, Harmsól 38)

Flingers are the flame of battle, swollen with fal- sehood, endure stench, frost with flame; there lie embers of fire upon men. Many another greater terror for dishonourable men is there and more sorrow than my tongue is able to discribe.

(Gamli kanóki, Harmsól 39)

But as his tongue flies around a shouting au- dience of hate and grief, the knife seeks its way towards the white clouds of Hrafnkel's eyes. As Hákon drags the suffering head forward, the le- arned tongue of the follower of the bright man from the south sings no more. Spirits of the earth, gods of the kingdoms so dear, where is the peace that I learned to be leading hands of Heim- dallr when I entered this valley long ago? Dark are the seasons to come, and guardian spirits of the land lead her away from a place now reddened with the blood of turmoil.

[mnaasilveira]

Angel heimsækir Fatimu árið 1916

______________________________________________________________ ______________________________________________________________ Engill Portúgals birtist þrisvar sinnum árið 1916 fyrir litlu fjárhirðunum í Fatimu til að undirbúa þá fyrir birtingar blessaðrar móður árið 1917. Hann kenndi þeim eftirfarandi bæn: „Guð minn, ég trúi, ég dýrka, ég vona og ég elska þig! Ég biðst afsökunar á þeim sem…

[avatarkyoshisays]

Bæns

[2jesterprince4]

bÆns