The literature of my land is strewn with whalebones,
mournful siren songs that roll from arctic emptiness
to our tiny outposts snug against the icy ocean.
So wander its darkening skies
with the winds rolling off black lakes
by endless lightless forests
and all the cold the cold the cold.
And know that this land has spawned an understanding
that howls across the barrens and hangs hushed and grinning
in the silently eroding skies that are too violent to be heavens.
And know that the nature of things is to overcome,
little fragile one,
and when the Norse winds race down off the Atlantic
and strike you nearly dead in the snow piled street,
you will know that this place is a tiny outpost that the land
is already taking