Trafika Europe 1 - Northern Idyll

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.

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