Crooned ochre's lyrics of amor rust-red clay-sing from my tongue's rosy gates. The kaolin crafted bark of scented Sycamore receives my serenade, and what the worthless name weeds I wide-eyed praise, for a man is not a man until the breath borrowed from the wind utters words worthy of the mountains. And years' devotion in majestic crag-chapels hardly suffices to find first syllables of praise for psalms for which hills patiently wait. With polished ore-words and syllables of stone, I will rock-slab sing the subtle shades of brown and blood-red, tawn and Autumn hew of leaf in strong, cooled lava-fingers. I needfire frolic with flocks of words in thrown-down sound-petals to celebrate gnomes and sylphs, for in Hrimfaxi's rider's encrispened air, I find sounds that bite the silence with clang of lingual damascine steel against ice, and I shudder to spill this mouth-sac's seed geyser in great reverence. O plains copper and lincoln-green, O loft castles fastened on stars' wide sea-tethers, I dip and cup mouth-mead and hand it to Mani, that he might ladle-dowse the firmament with my praise, horse mane-sprinkled from Nana's disir-riders as dew of dwarves' booty cast to feed the hungry Earth in feast. This I offer Eire, and Palatine, and all of Tovangar, that Jord's youth ever cycles back on taste of Idunn's apples. This I pray.