Beneath a sky the colour of old iron,

where winter keeps its ancient lore,

she rests where shadows gather—

as though she has been here before.

The night is quiet as a fjord,

the moon hangs pale and low,

and somewhere in the frozen dark

the northern winds still blow.

She carries no crown upon her head,

no name carved into stone,

only the weight of forgotten years

and secrets she has known.

Like an old Norse tale half remembered,

like a song the skald once sung,

there is longing in the silence,

and a promise left unsprung.

Her body holds the map of journeys

no sailor dared to chart—

valleys shaped by restless waters,

and hidden harbours of the heart.

The darkness folds around her softly,

the stars keep watch above,

and somewhere beyond the mountains

waits the ghost of an ancient love.

Perhaps once, beside a northern fire,

two hands were intertwined;

perhaps a promise passed between them

that neither could leave behind.

Now only the wind remembers,

and the sea repeats the tune—

of lovers lost to distant shores,

beneath an ever-changing moon.

And if you listen very closely

when the midnight silence falls,

you may hear her heart still calling

through the frost-covered halls.

Not for riches, nor for glory,

not for kingdoms won or lost—

but for one forbidden tenderness

worth every ocean crossed.

So let the old winds carry her story,

let the darkened heavens gleam;

for some loves are never buried—

they simply become a dream.

And she remains, beneath the stars,

where the ancient waters roll—

a woman out of another age,

still waiting for the one

who once promised her his soul.