One white-wing came,
a watcher of waves,
herald of hunger,
harbinger of gifts.

Then sudden storm-burst—
seven more soaring,
a circle of sky-born,
Njörðr’s swift kin.

Eight wings of omen,
eight paths unfolding,
like Sleipnir’s gallop
across sea and sand.

They smelled not sweetmeat,
but spirit’s intention,
the gift of the Gothi
laid forth with honor.

So the sea-father smiled,
the landvættir gathered,
and gull-cries carried
your prayer to the tide.