In this lonely brooding place
The old gods still have power, still reign.
Here the rough-hewn hills around the lake
Stand out like ramparts, built by them,
Lurid lit as the fleeting sun slips out
From behind the rain black clouds,
Then disappear in mist again.
Between them the wind sighs,
Like the Swan Maidens
Searching for their wings,
And stirs the grey lake waters
Drumming softly on the rocks
As wave after wave rhythmically rolls
Towards the pebbled shore.
Larch, birch, ash and pine,
Ancient, magic trees,
Sweep low in unison, rustling
To the music of water and wind.
Somewhere among them
Hidden from the eye,
Deer uneasily graze, stamp quietly
And silent wolves slip softly by.
Thunder echoes from Thor's dark hammer,
Lightning sparks from Wayland's forge,
Dark clashings as of gods at war.
Shrouding all in fog, cascades the rain
Like the torrents of tears shed
By Freyja weeping for Balder slain.
The storm abates, moves on.
The sun, freed, paints in fresh-tint tone
Glorious colours upon mountain and lake.
The trees stretch heavenwards
Straight, tall and bold.
And way above in a cerulean sky,
Formations of home-bound geese fly high,
Heralding Spring triumphantly.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem