What do I tell the giant that I was,
that it was me a million years ago,
wanderer on the northern borders,
singing to the ice so that it wakes up,
hated and feared by humans
in mutual rejection, and that has not changed;
how could i love a snowflake
a great monster devouring infants,
they wonder and hate little bipeds
there in his village, away from the songs
with which I decipher the frozen water.
And I'm still that, singer of the poles,
vibrant voice in the world with my mantra
with no more friends than the great sky of fire
where the sun to my right falls, so orange
if I stand on the white fjord facing south,
and the night aurora, iridescent
radiance from the bowels of the earth;
for these two lights I have returned, and also
by the unrepeatable winter hexagons.
The giants do not know how to cry, we do not know
because no one was ever that great
like to hug us, and yet
a tear shines where my beard was
if I watch the sun tear apart
in a pool of gasoline.