darkness over green heather and grass, those hoarse words
that she muttered in his ear, if I could only love you, he
whispered happily, he whispered despairingly; it would be
only unhappiness and death, she whispered back, before
forcing his head down to prevent him from seeing her face,
seeing the black eyes that looked up at the sky. The sky that
was growing restless. The sky that is so distant it seems at
times to have sentenced man to solitude.
And now this sky is heavy and restless, with dark, rushing
clouds. It’s summer, yet dangerous weather hangs over us.
In June, which be so bright that it seems we can see to the
bottom of existence, even as if we can see eternity, friendly
and huge in the distance. A storm, yet in June; it could
certainly treat us more fairly.
The wind breaks up the sea and all that is loose blows away:
handcarts, shovels, promises; forgive me, but I don’t love
you anymore, the wind tore my love from me, blew it away.
Horses stand on the moors, in some places completely
exposed, turning away from the wind that lashes all of
nature, they let the tempest pass over them, stare straight
ahead, look forward to grazing again. The rain pounds on
them violently, it pounds on the big parlour window in
Geirþrúður’s house, all four of them sit in the parlour, the
boy beneath a dim lamp, you’ve got to have light to see the
pages; whither went the light, who took it, bring it back, we
don’t deserve this.