[Intro]
[A wooden cup, a knife hilt and a bench form a slow three-beat table rhythm.]

[Verse 1]
The boar was carved, the benches filled,
The mead ran dark, the torches spilled
Their amber light on helm and scar,
On men who came from lands afar.
No boast rose high, no table shook,
Each warrior wore a waiting look.
Above the high seat, carved in thorn,
There stood one bright, untouched horn.

[Chorus]
Leave the untouched horn where the fire burns low;
No hand should lift it, no mead should flow.
It waits for the lord who will ride before dawn,
And the seat will stand empty when the drinker is gone.
Let the hall keep one silence no battle can scorn—
Leave the last cup sleeping in the untouched horn.

[Verse 2]
I filled the cups of sword-cut kings,
Of nameless spears and broken rings.
One asked me softly, “Will we wake
When all nine roads begin to break?”
I had no rune, no lie, no art,
So pressed the vessel to his heart.
He drank, then placed his cup face-down;
No man that night desired a crown.

[Chorus]
Leave the untouched horn where the fire burns low;
No hand should lift it, no mead should flow.
It waits for the lord who will ride before dawn,
And the seat will stand empty when the drinker is gone.
Let the hall keep one silence no battle can scorn—
Leave the last cup sleeping in the untouched horn.

[Choir]
We feasted before with the doors thrown wide.
We laughed at the wound and the spear in the side.
Tonight every flame has a funeral form.
Tonight even Valhalla is listening for the storm.

[Verse 3]
Then Bragi laid his harp aside,
And Heimdall faced the doors with pride.
The Allfather touched the spear he bore;
A crack ran pale above the floor.
He passed the horn and did not drink.
The fire bent low along its brink.
Outside, beneath the reddening morn,
A wolf-note crossed the untouched horn.

[Bridge]
What is a feast when none return?
What is a torch when heavens burn?
What is a song when breath is brief?
A cup held still can carry grief.
No toast can turn the woven thread;
We drink to love, not life ahead.

[Final Chorus]
Leave the untouched horn where the fire burns low;
Let no trembling hand make the dark mead flow.
It waits for the god who will ride before dawn,
While the high seat remembers the weight that is gone.
When the roof falls inward and the bright shields are torn,
One flame will remain in the untouched horn.
Let the hall keep one silence through thunder and scorn—
For the last of the gods and the last drinking horn.

[Outro]
The benches emptied one by one.
The doors stood gold beneath no sun.
I faced the cup across the floor.
It cast one shadow—nothing more.