She speaks with eyes of ice and tripping tongue,
a lilting poetry transposed to song.
Is this the Finnish dream bird that I hear,
who keeps the sleeper safe when nights are long?
Her language dances lightly over words
with trills and brittle consonants of frost.
I hear the kee-kee-kee of Arctic terns,
and music from old sagas not yet lost.
The scribe of Middle Earth wove elvish runes
from language forged like mithril, strong but light.
Its silver tones drew strength from days long gone;
steel threads from tales spun through the timeless night.