Jón á Bægisá - 30.09.2004, Blaðsíða 123

At home
gluttons for power, wealth and wine around
in wide circles, a false court that spies
on all you do, your thoughts, your acts and aims.
An heir to a distant realm, alone you face
the intrigues of this world. You wait, must pause
a while to think, to hone your will, and then
as the red tongues of treason’s sordid flames
intone your prophesy of death and pain,
you slay the culprit, keeping your sacred vow.
The quiet earth is bathed in the morning glow
of sacrifice and holy vengeance: This is I,
Hamlet the Dane!
Hallberg Hallmundsson þýddi
At home
The primal sun with beams for its white hands
strikes cliffs and woods, an empty country’s harp,
and conjures coloured music from the bonds
of frost-pale stillness, plays a merry dance
on the glowing yellow, green, and red that light
the flowers and heather, on the mist-blue mountain cap,
on the scattered flocks of sheep in summer white,
fissures sprayed with black, the lava’s grey expanse.
I drink your music’s glory with thirsty eyes,
my cherished, longed-for land, and turn to you,
my nerves aflame with the same welcoming joy
as when you first rose to me from the seas.
I snuggle up in that motherly embrace
where I laughed as a child, where I find joy and grace.
Bernard Scudder þýddi
á Jföœpúá — Menninga(r)miðlun í ljóði og verki
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