As the years, the ages, the epochs flow by All seeks warmth and escape from the frost and the storm. Then why is it northward that these birds fly, If birds only belong in the south where itís warm? They do not need glory or greatness Under wings ice will come to an end, And they will find avian happiness Their reward for braving the wind. Why canít we just live, what has shaken our nights? What cast us away to sail the high surf? We have yet to catch sight of the Northern Lights. How rarely that happens - their shine is of worth! Stillness. Just seagulls - like lightning. And we feed them the void by hand. But as our reward for the silence There will certainly have to be sound. How long we have dreamed only dreams of white, Because all other hues were covered by snow. We went blind long ago from that glare, that sight, But we relearn our sight from a black streak of soil. Our throats are released from speechlessness, Our weakness like shade melts away. The reward for nights of hopelessness Will be unending arctic day. Freedom, hope, and the North - a borderless land Spotless snow, like a life stretching long without lies. And crows do not pluck our eyes out of our head Because here in this land not a single crow flies. The ones who believed no dire prophecies, To rest in the snow never lay For them the reward for loneliness Is that someone must come their way.
© Nora Moseman. Translation, 2012