The voice is already asking for hearing, and that low repeated tread keeps the address close to the ground.

With Valföðr named, the vocal line still has a lot of air around it; the pulse underneath is the thing that makes the space feel firm.

Now the poem has turned back to the beginning, to Ymir and the before-world, but the music doesn't open into emptiness. It keeps measuring each step.

That Ginnungagap line lands inside the same dark warmth, so the void is sung as something paced, not weightless.

The sun-darkening image begins, and the striking part is how controlled it stays. The chant doesn't imitate chaos; it keeps its ordered tread.

The scale tightens here: brothers against brothers, kin bonds breaking. Under it, the drum-like ground keeps returning, while the voice pulls in wider arcs.

Garmr enters the prophecy here, and those brief brighter edges in the arrangement catch for a moment before the phrase settles back into the larger frame.

Ragnarök is finally named, but the music doesn't make it a separate spectacle. It stays inside the same walking force that has carried everything so far.

The renewed earth rises in the words now, green from the sea, and the horizon widens without the pulse letting go.

The final image turns toward Gimlé, a hall brighter than the sun, and this is where the grip begins to slacken rather than simply resolve.

By the end, the frame has withdrawn, and the ear keeps counting for a moment after the chant has stopped carrying it.