| |
| THE DARK rolls back. | |
| Like dropped stars, | |
| The willows shine on the sides of the water-courses: | |
| Their ice-blades clash, | |
| Making a slow thin music. | 5 |
| So wakes he, Tem-Sotetc-Kwi; | |
| So comes he slowly—like a slow thin music. | |
| Ah—ah—hi-i, brothers! Lovers of trails and sea-paths! | |
| It is the time of sorrow and the time of shutting-in: | |
| For he has come again—Tem-Sotetc-Kwi— | 10 |
| With heavy winds, | |
| Like frozen ropes of cedar, hoary, | |
| Uncoiling from his thighs | |
| To bind the world. | |
| |
| I have seen his white moccasins upon the mountain: | 15 |
| His steps have hushed the waters | |
| Of the great and little falls; | |
| The rushing rivers are stopped. | |
| He has fed the lake’s watery breast to the White Bear | |
| That follows him. | 20 |
| The canoes of the Coast-dwellers are hung under the roofs | |
| Like empty cradles: | |
| We can no longer rock on the wings of the great Blue Heron! | |
| |
| The great Blue Heron has hidden herself | |
| Under the thatch of her nest, | 25 |
| Because of his pale gray foxes, with white ears— | |
| His hungry foxes, | |
| Huddled about the brink of her nest. | |
| He has taken away the brown fields, | |
| Where our bare feet danced with Autumn | 30 |
| At the feast of berries and maize— | |
| The bare brown fields that were glad | |
| When we drummed with our brown bare feet, | |
| Singing, “Hoy-mah-ah! hoy a-mah!” | |
| |
| Ai-hi! The mats his witch-woman weaves for him are thick and cold: | 35 |
| We have put beaver-fur about our feet, | |
| And made us long, long flat shoes to bear us up. | |
| (This is our magic, wise men’s magic, | |
| To save us from the White Bear’s maw!) | |
| His great snowy owls fill all our cedars. | 40 |
| Aii-hi! The red breasts of woodpeckers | |
| No longer flicker in our forests. | |
| His witch-woman is plucking the wings of the sky, | |
| The air is stuffed with white feathers: | |
| We no longer may speak with the sun—ai-i! | 45 |
| Gravely, with bowed hearts, we greet you, | |
| O Tem-Sotetc-Kwi, Snow-chief, Ice-hunter, | |
| Priest of the Long White Moons! | |
| |
| Slowly, slowly, like thin music, | |
| Murmur the sorrow-chant, | 50 |
| Coast-dwellers, my brothers: | |
| For Tem-Sotetc-Kwi has carved the death totem | |
| Over Swiya’s house-door— | |
| Q’ulx—se—wag—ila—making pure! | |
| Our mother Swiya, Swiya our mother is dead. | 55 |
| Sorrow, sorrow, my tribe, for Swiya! | |
| |
| Much joy had Swiya, our mother, who loved three lovers! | |
| As a maid, boldly she went forth | |
| And met Spring among the willows; | |
| He pierced her with hope. | 60 |
| Singing she entered the green doors of Summer; | |
| Singing she came out, girdled with fragrance. | |
| She took the yellow harvest-moon in her hands, | |
| And waited in the maize-fields behind our village. | |
| Autumn clasped her there in the fields; he crowned her with maize, | 65 |
| He filled her pouch with berries, he gave her much deer’s meat. | |
| |
| Autumn, Feast-maker! Dearest was he among her three lovers— | |
| He was the strong one: he gave the most food; he was the last. | |
| Ai! great joy had Swiya, our mother, who loved three lovers, | |
| And took their gifts. | 70 |
| All their gifts were ours: Swiya, our mother, kept nothing back. | |
| Now she lies bare, her hands are empty, her face is cold; | |
| Her eyelids are shut, for her eyes are in the Place of Death, | |
| Under white eyelids! Q’ulx—se-wag-ila! | |
| Tem-Sotetc-Kwi has carved the death-totem over Swiya’s door. | 75 |
| Slowly, softly, like thin music, murmur the sorrow-chant | |
| For Swiya, our mother. Swiya, our mother, is dead. | |
| |
| Q’ulx—se—Q’ulx-se-wag-ila wa! | |
| |
| Gravely, with bowed hearts, we greet you, | |
| O Tem-Sotetc-Kwi, Snow-chief, Ice-hunter, | 80 |
| Priest of the Long White Moons! | |
| |
