A rune, red is she.
Red, in white skin carved.
A blood-staunching stave
whose angles pop boils.

A rune, red, that
lights an inner flame
I see shining back
to the dawn of days.

When my gaze meets it,
this red rune, I see
as through Ishtar's gate
all of inner Babylon's
letters carved as odes and psalms.

Each stave is a letter,
each branch a verse,
carving their way
way through the sagas
back to the depths:
The womb of life itself,
to lost Fimbultýr's
morning red wyrd-rune.
Back when the world
was dawning,
yet not meadow-thatched,
but swept in scarlet.