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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.