Sand, burning his eyes,
Wet stones, pressing his arms.
Convulsions from the slime released him,
The draugr was back to life.

He left the mound
they hadn't dig
a barrow for him. Rage
gained ground in his dead brain.

A few steps away from his grave
a sword driven into another barrow,
a rusty helmet hanging from its handle.
Two times five barrows.

He was not the only one who'd fallen,
but the only one who couldn't rest.
Didn't remember his name,
ruled by the hunger of the draugr.
He barely remembered the battle,
a remote, muffled, iron scream
reached him from-his-memories which
didn't seem to have revived as well.

He wondered ¿could he return
to his fiord, his home, his land
The fog in his mind cleared
every now and then.
A wanderer mind...

The draugr didn't know his name,
only longed to rest in peace.
Hunger blinded him again.
A close roar.
The draugr hurried up
following his insane impulse.
Seals!
He pounced over one of them
and before devouring it, he broke all its bones.
His hands were brutal.
The seal appeared to him just like a bite.
He felt massive, enourmous,
like a carnivorous ox.
He would return to rest in his homeland
even if the journey took him a hundred years.