Blow, white winds,
With echoes of the past.
While in your ice
Red-hot iron is cast.

Now the smith comes
Dressed in night’s shade,
Taking up the hammer
From the table on which it laid.

Strike after strike
The fire melts the ground,
Leaving a smell of familiarity
And a well-known sound.

Truth is this!
Like a branding iron
Cast into the
Cold winter ground.