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There’s good cover here, said Geirþrúður, and he gave her a

long look before saying that he could love this country.

Everything was turning green, and it was still and quiet

between the tussocks, between the blades of grass, between

the mountains that gathered sunshine and shone. On such

days it’s as if the birdsong can heal the wounds within us.

They lay in the grass for a long time, found a hollow, those

who find good hollows during an Icelandic summer can’t

complain, bliss awaits them, that is, if the birds let them be.

The blades of grass move almost imperceptibly, like rows of

venerable statesmen, and the birdsong healed wounds. I

could easily love this country, said the captain, before

adding, I could easily love you. People say the most

incredible things before achieving satisfaction for their

desires, or during, all that’s been whispered, breathless

phrases, immensely deep promises that prove to be shallow

and worth little when all is said and done, the orgasm done

and gone, the penis no longer erect and quivering with

ardour and the lust for life, but instead slack, a dangling rag

of skin between the legs. But the moment had passed when

he said he could love her. They’d lain down and nearly

ripped off their clothing, which was in their way, it was

unbridled passion, it was vehemence, the sky witnessed it,

the blades of grass felt it, the mountains heard it and it

startled nearby birds; they were like wild animals, they were

beautiful, but now it was over. They smoked, sipped from a

flask, gazed at blades of grass, the sky, the mountain, birds,

and the captain said that he could love her.