Aqsaqtuk's Icy Song

On frozen plains beneath the northern lights,
Aqsaqtuk wakes, a game of ancient breath.
Ptarmigans face Long-tails, their names a nod
To birds that carve their lives in Arctic winds.

The ball, of hide and whalebone, stuffed with moss,
Kicks off between two lines of eager feet.
No boundaries hold the rush, just ice and will,
Goals stretched apart, some say by ten long miles.

Players surge, a storm of song and stride,
Chanting taunts to shame the rival’s heart.
The ice creaks under boots, the ball a star
Darting toward a distant, sacred post.

In myths, the dead play on in aurora’s glow,
A walrus head their ball, forever free.
Aqsaqtuk binds the living to the past,
Each kick a pulse of Inuit pride.

Though modern fields have claimed the game’s old soul,
Its spirit lingers in the snow’s deep hush.
In communal qaggi, they sing of triumphs,
Where ice and heart still dance as one.