The Tail of Akkoa

How can we name that keenest pilgrim to the farthest shore? Who mined the gold with which the griever's throne is gilded? Were she to tell us of herself, could we trace back the calving, Discover our question with a note like a wind chime's chime? Akko, whose renown is haunting; Akko, who whirls behind the wheel; Akko, whose age is midmorning; Akko, who began the pyres here; Was it not you who walked the aeons of black, dry sand? Were you not born onto the mad carcass of the world? You are that self-same naiad who spawned the lasting tide; You are the shipwright by the boats, the helm and the loch. Revivalist of the cairn of grief, you found where guidelines cling And rolled over the shoulders of the world. Poltergeist of the play of things, your crown is rife with eggs, Out of which are hatched all the forms but one. Progenitor, whose progeny is cascading on, First-born in the lot of twinning ghosts, Along the road you twisted between the glen and sea, Your cross is found by a meandering pace of passing.