The Tundra

Oh, tundra vast, where winds do bite, Where summer's day is winter's night. A land of fire, ice, and sheep, Of brooding skies that rarely sleep. We thrive on lava, moss, and pride, Though sometimes feel the world outside Forgets we’re more than Björk and Cod— Our quirks, our quirrels, our Viking squad. We’re quiet folk, a tad reserved, With humor dry, and smiles conserved. But toss us in a thermal pool, And see us giggle like a fool. The sagas sing of ancient might, But let’s be real—our greatest fight Is finding sun mid-April gloom, Or not discussing weather in a room. Our horses prance with double gait, Our language traps the tongue of fate. But if you try and twist a word, We’ll clap—then mock you. (Yes, you heard.) Our homes are cozy, clad with turf, A shelter from the glacier’s surf. Yet in our hearts, a paradox: We’re mighty trolls, and fragile rocks. So here’s to Iceland—quirky, bold, Where glaciers carve and geysers scold. A tundra tough, yet tender too, A land of dreams—and “aðeins þú.”