Undir Jökli - Sólstafir

Frosin jörðin brakar undir fótum mínum,

mitt kalda stolt brennur í hjarta mínu

og fornir andar reika hér um undir jökli

eins og skuggar fortíðar sem dó, en lifir þó.

Þeir eru bergmál fjallana,

eins og viðkvæm sumarblóm

á kaldri vetrar nóttu

visna þeir, visna þeir og deyja.

Þeir eru vetrarins dauðu sumarblóm,

á leiði þeirra ég frostrósir lagði.

En þögnin boðar dauða minn.

Kom ég hingað til að deyja?

Hér þar sem sólin er köld

og auðnin endalaus,

hér undir jökli

þar sem fornir andar reika,

hér á ég heima

og hér vil ég deyja.

Under The Glacier (The Winters Dead Summerflowers)

Frozen soil cracks beneath my feets,

my cold pride burns in my heart

and ancient spirits wander around here beneath the glacier

like shadows of a past that died, but lives on though.

They are the echoes of the mountains,

like fragile summerflowers

on a cold winternight

they wither, they wither and die.

They are the winters dead summerflowers.

On their grave I layed frostroses.

But the silence annonunces my death.

Did I come here to die?

Here, where the sun is cold

and the desert is endless.

Here beneath the glacier

where ancient spirits wander.

Here is my home

and here I want to die.

The frozen ground crashes under my feet,

my cold pride burns in my heart

and ancient spirits roam about under a glacier

like the shadows of the past that died, but still lives.

They are the echoes of the mountains,

like delicate summer flowers

on a cold winter night

they wither, they wither and die.

They are the dead summer flowers of winter,

on their way I laid frost roses.

But the silence heralds my death.

Did I come here to die?

Here where the sun is cold

and the desolation endless,

here under a glacier

where ancient spirits roam,

here I live

and here I want to die.

Under The Glacier (The Winters Dead Summerflowers)

Frozen soil cracks beneath my feets,

my cold pride burns in my heart

and ancient spirits wander around here beneath the glacier

like shadows of a past that died, but lives on though.

They are the echoes of the mountains,

like fragile summerflowers

on a cold winternight

they wither, they wither and die.

They are the winters dead summerflowers.

On their grave I layed frostroses.

But the silence announces my death.

Did I come here to die?

Here, where the sun is cold

and the desert is endless.

Here beneath the glacier

where ancient spirits wander.

Here is my home

and here I want to die.