Many-named, multiform, magnificent
Máni I beseech you, whom even
the Gods approach when they wish
to be told the year and the secrets it holds,
you who wear a belt of clacking beads
strung across your narrow dancer’s hips
for the calculation of days and weeks,
whose knowing fingers bear rings
of silver and opal, feet sheathed
in white slippers that curve at the toe,
Sól-bleached bones braided into your long,
long hair purple as the breast of Nótt,
with silken trousers woven for you
by the three Spinsters in the cave by the lake
where Daeg comes to bathe and rejuvenate,
and a constellation-spangled ermine cloak
hanging from your smooth, curved, futharked shoulders,
crowned with electrum and grey ash covering your face;
so they find you attired, when Óðinn
and his glorious kin seek out the counsel
of the far-seeing and sooth-saying Sorcerer God.
Reveal to me Máni, I pray, what I must do
and know to be wise, pious, hospitable and lucky
this day, this week, this month and this year
drawing closer, ever closer
through my deeds and reflections
to our people’s Holy Powers
and Beloved Ancestors.