Literature
Anglo-Saxon riddle
Hunger of furious beasts, lapping the limbs of trees;
Tasting its first feast, with thousand bight tongues.
Giving birth to blacken lands, leaving the chaos to man,
Laughing as women weep, over lost ashen possessions.
Wary it watches man, while he soundly sleeps
Waiting when best, to burn his hall.
But in winters cold, it longs to warm mans core,
Only when given life by man, will it grow.
But oh! How it fears, the skies tears,
The spit of the sea, and the weeping of the wells.
Only surging swells of water, can slay this strong beast.