I call out to Sigyn, the Goddess who loves
the way moonlight reflects off the rainbowy scales
of swift salmon struggling against the current,
and how the white teeth of wolves shine in the gloom
as they race through snowy woods and lift their shaggy throats
in salute to wide-ranging Máni, and when lightning bugs flit
and dance around like elegant Álfar or the fiery wheels
in Nótt’s purple cloak, and the stillness of those long hours
before golden-haired Sól shows herself when anything
seems possible, even an end to your husband’s endless torment.
Hear me, Lady, as your husband hears you when you return
from having emptied the bowl and you tell him of all
these beautiful things, and weave soothing myths from them
to distract from the searing pain, and though it does not
he appreciates the effort and bears it all manfully, for your sake;
this is my prayer, O Sigyn who so delights in the nocturnal
that you named your own son after Nótt’s giant father,
soon may you be able to stand again in Loki’s firm embrace
enjoying these and countless other dark sights together.