Beowulf: A New Translation

by Beowulf Poet

“Here’s one of the world’s wonders: God is good. He’s given us gifts—the capacity for clarity granted our kind. He runs the show, though, manages every aspect of existence. Sometimes He gives a man from a good clan room to roam wherever he desires, every instant filled with joy, lets him run his own kingdom and rule over boys 1730 who guard his borders, stand-up guys who’d die for him. God does this for so many decades that the man himself, because men in the end are fools, forgets how things work. He shirks his soul-keeping. There’ll be no changes for him, he thinks, no end in sight, no loss of love or life. He wallows like a bear in honey, unstung, and nothing scathes him, not sickness nor sorrow, nor does his mood darken, nor do his enemies find him, their blades sharp and stealthy, no—instead the world wends to his will. He notices nothing nasty in himself, 1740 until one day everything changes. Every guard goes down eventually, sagging on the stone wall surrounding the soul. Here, while the sentry’s sleeping, a sniper strikes, sending a spike into the man’s heart. Now he’s poisoned, selfishness searing his certainty—he’s never needed to defend himself against internal threats, but the greedy orders of this beastly boss make him think the halls he’s guarded, the treasures he’s watched over for decades, are nothing compared to what he deserves. He hoards, hisses, 1750 hides his gold, refuses support to those who’ve served...