The violent voice of invisible waves,
while whipping the cliffs of the mainland shores
with wind-sweeping force of a standard dream,
keeps sounding and guarding the secret within.
The swelling of sails, like some distant breasts,
is floating in aimless search for a place,
if only a spot where the silence speaks
much louder than blizzards and thunderstorms.
But how to decipher the hieroglyphs of life,
the signs of the Runes of a skaldic kenning,
or words of an outrageous Joycean line,
when the lack of Rosettas keeps silence afloat?
You asked for an answer. I could not reply.
You mentioned the Rök stone, read as it is,
but it does not matter; its text is of riddles,
and there are no tools left for solving its secrets.
No wonder we look at each other like strangers.
