she might be called,
burning forth light
that draws out dirt
incinerate. Through forests'
her hurled beams search
and find all ill, thoughts
that waver from solid paths,
scrutinize the shadows of day.
No wight of woe withstands
that valkyrie's fiery shafts,
for off she chases all wiles
in her regal ferocity of might.
Slowly she sky-avenue strolls,
and if she sees designs of harm,
or any sully of innocence, she burns,
burns out those plans, whether deep
or shallow, and what remains?
However thin, only purity. Only
purity remains : pure,
in these days, from unspoken
elder days of shame, shrouded, no
more, she blesses royal intolerance
of shameful intent with searing shine,
a gift, to men, ensuring better days
for young and old alike. Let warmth
green your grass, guide your growth,
she would have you upright,
and disciplined, decorate
for the shining pageant. Always salute
her as she fire-rides by. She is Elder Aunt,
an amazon, to August's fruit-season
twin ushers, that laughter's lord
and lady, who beneath
her flaming gown of dripped gold
light-dropping in tongues of fire
that oven-etch the grain tawny,
they dance. So you might, if
your heart is pure. Show her.
Show this disc-bearing maiden of light
your golden-white pure heart,
and she will bless you, bless you
all your days, for day is hers
to shine. May Sol ever be blessed with Heill!