Putting treasure at saint Skogafoss

I can hardly breath these days:
Arms-vines, volcano-chest,
Love muscle erupts with craze
Not letting me dwell in rest.
The cloud-castle was carried away
With a low tide by heart-drakkar
To the shores of black sand bay,
Rising steam from the womb to a star.
There I love you in sagas of North,
At the crossroads of pristine trails,
Water-blood is blossoming forth
Singing songs in the mountain-veils.
Like an earworm at every turn
Blowing horns in Icelandic valley,
Nordic winds are swaying thorn
Stroking steed shaggy woolen belly;
Where I am a warrior, a poet, a queen
In tracery of braids riding a horse,
Wearing runic belt wooden and green
Putting treasure at saint Skogafoss.
Me today – full of joy and pain,
I pine over my shaved Ragnar, -
Over foam wall of waterfall rain
I have buried my love so far.