In that old language nobody speaks,

a river is rolling its storehouse of stones;

over and over, the river repeats

its own real name, oldest word on the map.

I watch a stranger step out from birchwood

with twin crows riding his shoulders;

from deep in an ice cave under a boulder,

a tall woman and her dog crawl out like a mist.

Now they call to me from across the river

and from so far back, I can never cross over.

In an old language nobody speaks,

how will I talk to my gods?