Strynefjellet

O mountain hills who pierce the fog, Rise up beyond your lakes. Seize the day in weary palms, Cupping summer snow To taste through the autumn. Rise up above the tunnels Carved and wending through your insides; Call the rain and midnight sun To grace and warm your flanks. Guard inside you The monsters killed by morning, Turned to stone with the rise Of the fire in the sky. Spew your boulders Like rain upon the flatlands And let them rest For the eons without ice To cover their slumber. The land will breathe from within you For you are the fathers of fable, Begging stories to explain Your impossibility; Begging songs to be sung Of your legend.