<html> <head> <title>Isa</title> <link href="./style.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" title="main" media="all"> <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0"> <link rel="icon" href="../img/runes/isa.svg"> </head> <body> <p class="center"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Runic_letter_isaz.svg"><img src="../img/runes/isa.svg" alt="Isa rune" title="Isa rune"></a></p> <h1>Isa</h1> <p>Traditional meaning: ice</p> <p>Meanings when upright:</p> <ul> <li>stillness and quiet</li> <li>silent contemplation</li> <li>the world that sleeps within</li> <li>boundaries of the soul</li> <li>individuation</li> <li>abeyance / temporary respite</li> </ul> <p>Meanings when inverted:</p> <ul> <li>reclusion</li> <li>emotional coldness</li> <li>a situation with no change in sight</li> <li>stagnation</li> <li>a weakened will</li> <li>inability to concentrate</li> </ul> <p>Isa can be useful for:</p> <ul> <li>finding a quiet place to concentrate</li> <li>casting a personal shield</li> <li>guarding against soul loss</li> </ul> <hr> <p>Anglo-Saxon rune poem:</p> <blockquote> Is byþ ofereald, ungemetum slidor,<br>glisnaþ glæshluttur gimmum gelicust,<br>flor forste geworuht, fæger ansyne.</blockquote> <blockquote>Ice is very cold and immeasurably slippery;<br>it glistens as clear as glass and most like to gems;<br>it is a floor wrought by the frost, fair to look upon.</blockquote> <p>Norwegian rune poem:</p> <blockquote>Ís ko,llum brú bræiða;<br>blindan þarf at læiða.</blockquote> <blockquote>Ice we call the broad bridge;<br>the blind man must be led.</blockquote> <p>A modern poem:</p> <blockquote> <p>Metaclysma,<br/> inter-world void.<br/> <strong>No touch, no voice,</strong><br/> silhouette of black,<br/> all other senses in lack.<br/> Just eternal light.</p> <p>I come to with limbs bound tight<br/> in open silk-lined coffin.<br/> Space between flight<br/> from Eris's explosion<br/> into metaclysma and now<br/> left unwritten, just as blank.<br/> Lights made dim as to not stain<br/> my vision with a single face<br/> of clergy self-proclaimed<br/> caretakers, unworthy to be named.<br/> To them, I think, I am a saint,<br/> a goddess who made sacrifice<br/> to give them <strong>this world that once was spring<br/> but now sleeps under blanket of ice.</strong></p> <p>Tomorrow steeps my Holiday<br/> where come commoners to pray<br/> to the casket where I've lain<br/> these five years, apparently,<br/> for grace<br/> or their fates to change.<br/> Body strewn over a bed<br/> in a darkened room, rubbing<br/> my limbs to regain<br/> five years of feeling,<br/> halfway sedate<br/> to keep aches from constructing<br/> a tower in my head.<br/> Maybe they wanted to reach the empty heavens<br/> too, drop a rock to bust open the frozen canyons.</p> <p>Jett,<br/> I had not the strength<br/> to your gentle hand hold on.<br/> I suppose<br/> I can only hope<br/> you're haunting somewhere in these halls,<br/> found a way these five years to cope<br/> with this world I made for you but did not survive<br/> to share. I think, unless I am deceived, I am alive<br/> now, again, yours forever.<br/> If you'll still have me as your wife.<br/> If you'll still live with me on that mountainside.</p> </blockquote> </body> </html>