…what IS the market for Kalevala knock-off fan fiction like, anyhow?

Ivatar no answer made then:
Silent as the spell was singing
As the curse was there declaiming
Speech nor song gave in reply.
At her loom her hands were busy
Sped her shuttles forth and back;
At her fire the pot was stirring;
In her mirror tresses combing,
And a magic she was making
To defeat the doom commanded.

At the loom her hands were busy
And a mantle wove of darkness:
Made a cloak of shadows mounting
As the moon at midnight casts them
Dark o’er skulking things that loiter
Shaggy-maned between the trees;
Of the warp strung out her long hair,
Of the weft hung down her dark hair
And the weights she made of corals:
Made the shuttle from her finger,
Of the bones of little finger;
Wove a web of shadows creeping
As at twilight they come crawling
Come from west in quiet hunger
And consume the lighted land.
Wove a cloak as black as midnight
And a cowl as dark as twilight;
Wove it wide: one span, another,
Three spans wide, in length was six spans,
And she cut the threads all-woven
And she plaited up her hair.

At her fire the pot was stirring:
All aroil with sea-foam bubbling
With the fallen foam was glowing
And the whole was steaming sweetly,
And she caught in it such fleetness
As the little fish that flying
From the greater flee for living;
And she cast in it the lightness
Of the leaping fish that gliding
From the wave cross crest to foam-crest
In between the sea and sky;
And the nimbleness collected
Of the gulls that circle ceaseless
By the winds born steady upwards;
Then the last proportion added:
Threw into the mix all bubbling
From her fingers, nail-parings:
From her right hand and her left hand
And her silver nails cast them
To the pot as she was stirring;
And she sang above the cauldron
Song above the seething cauldron
All together bound the portions
To each other made them fasten;
And she drew from out the cauldron
Drained the pot and drew the liquid:
Silver shoes and shining sandals,
With their bright soles glowing silver
And their sides were greenly glowing,
And the laces tied of gold.

At her mirror, tresses combing:
With her comb she broke the mirror
Shattered then her silver mirror.
And she took the scattered pieces
All the shining shards collected:
In her right hand shards were gleaming,
In her left through fingers spilling,
And she took of foam a handful
All the magic foam remaining,
And she shed of tears a dozen
Took of fallen tears a hundred
And about her spindle set them,
Wound her spindle and made ready
To create a golden girdle,
Armored gauntlets for the hero
Out of fallen foam a handful
And of flowing tears a hundred,
And of mirror-shards a thousand;
Wound her spindle, and she cast it:
From it fell a golden girdle,
Fitted for a hero’s raiment.
And again she cast her spindle
Cast it far; it fell still turning,
From it flung an armored gauntlet
For the right hand, gleaming golden
And inlaid with silver traces;
For a third time cast her spindle
From it came an armored gauntlet
For the left hand, shining silver
And inlaid with golden letters.

Advertisements

Author: leighbrackettsland

Student. Reader. Watcher. Dabbler.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s