Reading the Rök Stone

The violent voice of invisible waves,
While whipping the cliffs of the mainland shores
With wind-sweeping force of a standard dream,
Keeps sounding and guarding a secret within.

The swelling of sails like some distant breasts
Is floating in aimless search for a place,
If only a spot, where the silence speaks
Much louder than blizzards and thunderstorms.

But how to decipher the hieroglyphs of life,
the signs of the Runes of a skaldic kenning,
or words of a Joycean outraging line,
when lack of Rosettas keeps silence afloat?

You asked for an answer; I could not reply.
You mentioned the Rök stone, read as it is,
But that does not matter: its text is of riddles
And there are no tools left for solving its secrets.

No wonder we look at each other like strangers.