Oh, these are but faithful times
Pregnant already from what we´ve been
Reaching out to the dreams of a child
Berated by war and word
Lonely ecstasic pagan
Ascetic frequent flyer
Nomad, hermitage, letter writer.
He used to stare into the Ocean
And wonder where would the world once end
Later only in the expectation of when.
Curious silent tourist
Hotel dweller, caffee-goer
Nightly sailor, morning sleeper.
Will you once want to land on firm ground?
Will you ever yearn to smell the oaks in the graveyards?
Will you let God find you himself?
There´s no peace in your mind
You abhor those lazy lives, of churchgoers and mothers
You crave for a little more, for an unmediated encounter
There´s this long white shawl up north
Where the sun never goes around the world
Will you Icelander, land in a port, land perhaps home?
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