As years and centuries and epochs pass by,
All things head for warmth, far from snow.
So why is it to the north that these birds fly,
When it’s to the south that they should go?

None of them ever needs fame or glory;
There’s no frost or snow under their wings.
These birds will find their own happy story
In the small gifts that their bold flight brings.

Why couldn’t we live, just sleep in warm beds each night?
What made us take this journey far over the sea?
We’ve yet to see the shining of the northern light:
It’s rare - and highly prized, as it should be.

Silence... seagulls flash like lightning -
We feed them nothing from our empty hands.
But the reward for all our silence in coming
Is sounds echoing over the lands.

For so long, our dreams have been only white;
Each other hue is buried under the snow.
We’ve been blinded by this pallid light
But we’ll see again when the black shore shows.

The silence will loosen our throats al last!
Our frailty will melt away like a shadow.
We’ll be paid for all the desperate nights we’ve passed
With the polar day’s unending glow.

. . .
. . .
No crow will gouge out your eyes, understand,
For no crow in this place ever flies.

Those who didn’t fall prey to dark prophecies
Nor dropped for a rest down in the snow
Will find at last their loneliness will ease;
They’ll meet someone there, for sure, I know.