On Christmas night itself
- so a wise man writes
- the lads were all restraint
and just stared at the lights.
Then one by one they trotted off
into the frost and snow.
On Twelfth Night the last
of the lads used to go.
Their footprints in the highlands
are effaced now for long,
the memories have all turned
to image and song
By Jóhannes úr Kötlum / Translated by Hallberg Hallmundsson
Pictures/Copyright©Olafur Petursson
No comments:
Post a Comment