The Mockingbird

He's a small bird, crafted by God's nimble hands,
Bones smelted by the Dwarves of Nidavellir
To fuse a skeleton, delicate and fragile. 
Slightly too small like Thor's handle,
But strong to withstand the tough winds.

Silk feathers woven by the finest tailor
And stitched to his body with precision. 
Nesting in his skull a brain so small, 
Yet his eyes hold the wisdom of Odin, 
Plucked straight from Mirmir's well. 

The last thing he needs is a heart
From the remnants of Baldur's soul. 
When first he stretched his wings, 
He trilled tunes of peace and harmony. 
Yet, despite his harmonic prowess, 
He was named ‘the mockingbird’ for Loki.