So, I would fain speak to you,
Slayer of Grendel,
One who’s story lived long past him
Five-hundred times over.
Who can say what you truly are?
For though truth is oft what spawns legends,
Your epic outlasted even your bones.

If tales are true, I owe you life and freedom,
For, you see, I am Danish in blood;
A subject to Hrothgar, one you defended,
May well be the place that my lineage is from.

So then, Beowulf, may I ask you this?
For never a Dane lived but liked stories like bread,
When the Hag was slain, the nightmare ended
To where did you vanish, to leave you now dead?
What stories are left to be told!
What horrors and wonders did your eyes then see,
And take with you into the grave?
What sort of life did you go to lead,
After my ancestors you saved?

But my words are not really that epic,
And you might never have really been
As these thoughts may never reach your world
Of adventures and legends that I’ve never seen.