But the very smallest measure
Of the blood of the magician,
From the wounds of Wainamoinen. 
From the fire-place calls the old man,
Thus the gray-beard asks the minstrel: 
“Tell me who thou art of heroes,
Who of all the great magicians? 
Lo! thy blood fills seven sea-boats,
Eight of largest birchen vessels,
Flowing from some hero’s veinlets,
From the wounds of some magician. 
Other matters I would ask thee;
Sing the cause of this thy trouble,
Sing to me the source of metals,
Sing the origin of iron,
How at first it was created.” 
Then the ancient Wainamoinen
Made this answer to the gray-beard: 
“Know I well the source of metals,
Know the origin of iron;
f can tell bow steel is fashioned. 
Of the mothers air is oldest,
Water is the oldest brother,
And the fire is second brother,
And the youngest brother, iron;
Ukko is the first creator. 
Ukko, maker of the heavens,
Cut apart the air and water,
Ere was born the metal, iron. 
Ukko, maker of the heavens,
Firmly rubbed his hands together,
Firmly pressed them on his knee-cap,
Then arose three lovely maidens,
Three most beautiful of daughters;
These were mothers of the iron,
And of steel of bright-blue color. 
Tremblingly they walked the heavens,
Walked the clouds with silver linings,
With their bosoms overflowing
With the milk of future iron,
Flowing on and flowing ever,
From the bright rims of the cloudlets
To the earth, the valleys filling,
To the slumber-calling waters. 
“Ukko’s eldest daughter sprinkled
Black milk over river channels
And the second daughter sprinkled
White milk over hills and mountains,
While the youngest daughter sprinkled
Red milk over seas and oceans. 
Whero the black milk had been sprinked,
Grew the dark and ductile iron;
Where the white milk had been sprinkled. 
Grew the iron, lighter-colored;
Where the red milk had been sprinkled,
Grew the red and brittle iron. 
“After Time had gone a distance,
Iron hastened Fire to visit,
His beloved elder brother,
Thus to know his brother better. 
Straightway Fire began his roarings,
Labored to consume his brother,
His beloved younger brother. 
Straightway Iron sees his danger,
Saves himself by fleetly fleeing,
From the fiery flame’s advances,
Fleeing hither, fleeing thither,
Fleeing still and taking shelter
In the swamps and in the valleys,
In the springs that loudly bubble,
By the rivers winding seaward,
On the broad backs of the marshes,
Where the swans their nests have builded,
Where the wild geese hatch their goslings. 
“Thus is iron in the swamp-lands,
Stretching by the water-courses,
Hidden well for many ages,
Hidden in the birchen forests,
But he could not hide forever
From the searchings of his brother;
Here and there the fire has caught him,