sē wrecca

tonight i'm a wretch, a wrecca;
the Wanderer, exiled, alone,
anhaga, solitary one, modcearig,
must for a long time
hreran mid hondum        hrimcealde sæ
to traverse the path of exile.        Wyrd bið ful aræd!
what is my wyrd?
that ic sceolde ana / mine ceare cwiþan?
not only in eorle, it is a noble custom
that i too follow, that i should fæste binde
my ferðlocan and fiercely guard my hordcofan.
        Yet:
Ne mæg werig mod        wyrde wiðstondan.
i, the Wanderer, modsefan         minne sceolde
feterum sælan.
is this my wyrd: that sorg ond slæð        samod ætgædre
earmne anhogan        oft gebindað?

tonight
a-lone night of not-lonely nights
tonight

i wish someone were here
to pick me up and hold me
and tell me everything will be
all right; everything will be all
right, promise, really, promise.

because i'm so scared, because i'm
terrified; everything has fallen into place
and what had seemed to be right then is now
all wrong, awry, askew. if i asked you,
would you promise it will all turn out
all right in the end?

would you pick me up and hold me
and tell me everything will be
all right; everything will be all
right, promise, really, promise?