Angakkuq Poem by Vera Dike

The wind fell silent in the endless white,
As I walked where the ice-fields lay
I heard the stars hum their primeval song
I heard the pack of wolves cry far away

The call of the blood—a mournful cry,
A sorrow that none may tame
A song of the land, where cold winds fly
and the snow keeps no mans name


The drumbeat rose like a heartbeat deep,
A voice that called through time,
Echoing where the ancestors sleep,
In rhythms vast, sublime.

The voices of ages, strong and clear,
Spoke through the trembling skin,
Their presence near, their wisdom near,
As the dance of souls begins.

The spirits rose from the drifting white,
Their whispers danced on the breeze;
They swirled and leapt in the pale moonlight,
Like shadows among the trees.

The ghosts of hunters, clad in bone,
Drew close with hollow cries;
I joined their steps in a world unknown,
Beneath the watchful skies


No longer man, no longer beast
Between the worlds I stand—
A whisper on the northern winds,
A voice of ice and land.


A seer, a healer,
Angakkuk