My Grandmother's Requiem.

An Icelandic Xenophobe, floating in the void over black sands, between the mountains. My heart is in these mountains. An echo of my grandparents chanting the rhymes.

I can hear ghosts breathing,

My absolute.
My heart pumps lava.
My fire living in Ice.

We are the hidden people,
Eve's rejects,
Living proudly within nature.
We are Iceland, the closest thing
you have
to the ghosts of harmony.

An expressionless man, and a stern woman. Having seen the noon and eve of their lives.
Living along side their treasures,
their magic in the world.

We have lost our appreciation for silence,
for the distant wind howling between the lava beds,
we have dismissed the hidden people
the keepers of our heritage.
Mid-wives, light-mothers, to our identity

An expressionless man, and a stern woman. Having seen the noon and eve of their lives.
look at the sand, with depart in their eyes
their magic in the world.

My roots deep in the mountains
feel the pulse from the wound
where we were cut away
holding on the the ghost pain.

A child standing cold and alone
with nothing but a knife
too young to loose them.

A howling gale in the void
and within it
my grandfathers voice
and my grandmother's requiem.