If these arctic trees could disclose witness
To warn the newcomer seeking fortune
That this laden land's luring richness
Tempts with its gleaning glimmering boon…
Guiding mountains mark the way bound northward;
Rivers rush the foolish ships to the gold rush.
Empty rusted pans ravish the fjord:
The ill fated folly and a dream crushed.
Wise bears always catch the lowly salmon
When their ripples shimmer on the water.
Now flakes sharpen the frozen chilled air drawn
From a vengeful frigid night of winter.
How can this caught game flee its land a captor
When one mountain simply leads to more and moor?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem