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To UllR

Hail to UllR, master of Ydalir,
quick-thinking son of golden-haired Sif,
god of the winter, god of the north.
With skis strapped tight, with bow at the ready,
you travel, swiftly and certainly,
through thick-grown woods, branches bare
of leaves, coated with glittering ice.
In clouds of breath hanging still in the air;
in cold so piercing it stings our lungs
and numbs gloved fingers; in children's
sleds on well-packed hills; in grey mornings
spent crouched, bow in hand, waiting for deer,
UllR, we know you, we feel your might.
Hail to UllR! Hail the bow-god!

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