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Like an old ice-covered dragon, Jökeln lies heavy
And white-green shaggy down the slope between two peaks
The tail wrapped around the highest
The tip, the belly taut and stiff
In the cauldron of the mountain
The back is crowned of the ridge of the middle moraine
Black and lumpy
Down towards the valley he stretches a long narrow nose with a wrinkled
Skin to lips, white teeth grin in between
Through the black hole of the Jökelgate flows out of his
Gap a muddy stream
Spiky comb on top of head, dark cloudy green-gray eyes
Stilted he stares across the valley down
Presses nose winds against
Ground between paws whose dark claws
Glimpse out of wet dirty gray rags
Small-sized descendant of his giant ancestor, the ice age dragon
Father Jökul himself
He who stretched his tail up
Towards the Pole the frames against block mountains and Urals
He who over mountains and plains wrung
Crawling and tumbling
He who filled seas and lakes
Rifs with claws rivulets in the hard slabs
Gnawed the rocks and pressed
The mountains together with his weight
He who ravaged and laid waste fairy forests
Green paradises
Blowed away with icy breath
All that lived, blossomed and shone