I have gouged out the jagged mountain, created for you the fjord, fertile valley below, not a day, not a night, rather inhabited eons ever so slow, so long ago.
My edges fragile, these readily give way, the wise on my girth do skate-fish-play.
Your weight I bear, this doth not break me, but, the weight of The Sun, The Day!
I am of the darkest night and the brightest moon, harken to my moans as I shift and grow. Far on the distant shore your barrel fires glow, hot buttered rums flow; children laugh, children sing, in the shadows, on their coals, young lovers they blow.
I answer the sirens call of the icy depths below, stealthily at first, then with my icy thunderous voice, CRACK! They stumble, tumble, shudder in fear, in an instant those fated to my icy tomb, the icy sirens song beckons them to go.
A long winter of mourning those on the shore will know, but after the last snow, after winters last great blow, spring with her warming sun will arrive, a signal I must go, return to you upon your shores, those entombed in the sirens dark, silent icy depths far below on that winter’s night seemingly so long ago.