Adalsteinn Ásberg Sigurdsson

Walled in
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Courtesy of Adalsteinn Ásberg Sigurdsson
Translated from the Icelandic by the poet in collaboration with Bernard Scudder

Opening my eyes
in the pronounced silence
trying to work out
the white coverings
of the furniture
(perhaps it is
not furniture)
and the faded pictures
on the damp walls.

There is no ceiling here
no door, no window
only a round wall of stone
Many times a man's height.

Then the sky will
tumble down on me
white dust
with the scent of winter




Iceland
Translated from the Icelandic by the poet in collaboration with Bernard Scudder

That cold winter
the homefields turned to ice
so you could skate
between the farms.

For long, cloudy days
we used to play
on the bluish green mirror
making an express train
from sledges.

When we got home
the fire was lit
in the shiny black stove
its door jutting out
and the warmth poured forth
to thaw out
toes and fingers.

The smell of hot cacao
February darkness
and slowly drying clothes.

We owned a big
bountiful iceland
that cold winter.







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