What glory could settle the breeze?
In the days and nights that my mouth goes dry,
what road upon which an army marches does suffer a well to be dug,
and what cities fall that could bring a cup to my lips?
Words like yours incite no war cries to rally,
but they bring the rain when you call upon the clouds to drift.
And does my hunger make me foolish? Does my imagination run
          wild
Because it has never felt the weight of a wise thought?
Am I simple? Do my curiosities reveal my ignorance? Do I ask too
          much, or too often?
What does a love letter to a poet make the man with the pen desire?
Is it the laughter of a budding affection? Or the pity that brings a first
          chance?
Perhaps he offers up the voice in his soul
hoping that it will be cannibalized by a tongue that tastes nothing
          bitter
in the murmuring recitation of clumsier words.
I feel I should know.
But if I must be clumsy, and simple, and ignorant, too much or too
          often,
I can only wish for my clambering gait to still be swift enough
to catch you as you amble
from thought to thought.

When in the spring I began to walk, I encountered you, O Dellingr;
You, who was quiet, and tranquil, and who lifted the sun just above
          the lake
That sparkled with your light’s reflection. O Dellingr! I met you in
          the spring
And parted with you in the winter cold, and oh how I’ve missed
          you…!
I have longed to meet you again at the lakeside where I sat
And was soothed by the birdsong
And looked upon the shining waters
And became enraptured by the love I felt in my own heart
Before you gave Dagr his reins and sent him to his mother.
O gentle god, O light reborn, O third lover and day-maker,
Will you sit with me again?
Here at the lakeside,
Will you fill my lungs with “I love you”s
And caress my cheek with your most calming breeze?
O dayspring, O Dellingr, please enchant me here,
And over and over,
And when I fall from the sight of this world, let me fall upon a
          lakeside knoll
And sit with you again.

I have built with broken bones,
I have bent what simply breaks.
Skin to center, I have forged myself from steel.
And steel may melt and coil and collapse,
But I have befriended the dawn, the day, the dusk;
The flames of Sól are the feathers of my wings
And my courage frightens fear,
And my words give form to force,
And now the phantasms of every wish I have kept are given flesh.
Witness my rise, and if I seem to fall, watch me closer; my flight is far
          from finished.

Windborne boat, you now will sink
When you hear my baneful song
Calling storm and squall.
Rains will pour and flood your decks,
Your passengers the sea will drive
Betwixt its teeming teeth.
Bones the sea will take into
Its watery sands, and there it shall make tombs that time forgets.

When the Earth made you, she flecked your skin with seeds,
Tossing handfuls of black soil all across your shoulders
And sowing in your body the strength to thrive.
Your hair grew like man’s first fire,
Red and thrashing like a fish in the sea,
The sea where, now and then, your mother feeds you the flesh
Of the scorched men whose ships fear your fanned red skies
And find their burial mounds in the deepest sands
          under the flash of your light;
Men who feel your firm black soil again at the doors of your hall
And make themselves full with food and drink
And Hellos to friends so long and fervently missed.