by Dan Hanqvist
Standing aside in fear, warm by the fire, as the crowing rooster prophesied the dawn, he denied it, all the servant-girl had said. Caught out the craven bared-faced liar, by the second crow he'd still not be drawn, persisting as the eastern sky grew red. Betrayed in turn by his own native northern speech, he perjured himself by oaths of blandest aptness, compounding treachery by bearing base witness; and the cock's third crow confirmed what he'd teach. Alone outside, weeping bitterly in pain, remembering what he'd said, there was hope again.