Translation of the Deep Ice

Think of the words frozen in the blue deep,
trapped in the pressure of a thousand years,
waiting for the ice to fracture, to leap
into the throat of the gale. No one hears
the names of the peaks, the white slopes
that have forgotten the sound of a tongue.
We walk with heavy packs and frayed-end ropes,
finding the rhythm where the air is wrung
dry of its moisture. To keep going
is a matter of syntax. A precise
alignment of the boot and the knowing
of how to read the grammar of the ice.
The wind is an ancient chant,
that the southern stars alone can transplant.