If we study how earlier poets steered by the sky-map, perhaps we can learn how to cast a new chart. For us, the Sampo must be eco- and psychological. The brain spinning on the axis of the spinal column mirrors the great sphere on its pole. Death the progenitor keeps it tuning. In the Popul Vuh, a skull impregnates a woman by spitting in her hand.
All life feeds on the dead, roots there in the compost.
But our relationship with the dead is in trouble. We must obey but not abuse the form. But history and mythology record human attempts to usurp this sacred, biological law. If death is the mother of beauty. If every body on earth be needed for fuel, souls rendered in the try-works yield unctuous lucre.