Gerður Kristný
God
When I die
you should carve
out of my teeth
biting frost
fashion whistles
out my bones
and play on them howls in the wind
Until then you will keep yourself remembered
by spreading lustre
on the freshly fallen snow
Above me hovers
your protective wing
not having shed
a single feather
Translated by Sigurður A. Magnússon
Page(s) 127
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