(Note: Some folk feel that Vili and Hoenir are one and the same; some don't. The debate does not matter here; this is a place of peace, and so this poem to the Giver of Will under any name is placed here where it belongs.)

Hoenir, king of the lands of plenty,

What wisdom have you found

Amongst the marsh birds and the eels?

God who granted will to Ask and Embla,

Terrible will born of a slayer of Ymir,

Haunter of the lands most filled with Ymir's blood,

What do you seek there?

Are the bog lamps

The lingering flicker of Ymir's synapses,

Does wyrd stretch out its threads

Before you in the fog,

Or are the cleansing places of the world

Whispering their secrets?

With whom would you share your heron-wit?

Will the descendants of the driftwood born

Be worthy of such a gift,

Or will we burn brightly and fade

Like the will-o-wisps of your holy places?

Silence in the bulrushes

May greet the querent,

But that may be an answer in itself.

May we be worthy, Hoenir,

May we learn from your primal acts,

And in your silence may you not be forgotten.