Резултати претраге

A spring evening in Reykjavík.

Sun kissed clouds sweep over Esja,
west facing windows sparkle, and burn the house façades.
The warm spring breeze softly strokes our cheeks,
the desire for love awakens in our breasts anew.
A young, warm woman is kissed in the middle of the street
Lads drive around looking out for girls,
Akrafjall and Skarðsheiði are like purple dreams.
Nothing is more beautiful than a spring evening in Reykjavík.
 
The pond lies quietly in the evening glow
The crows, though diligent and busy on the islet.
Snuggle up, sires and damsels, on the benches,
the poet Jónas listens to the songs of the thrushes.
Among hidden birch limbs on a soft downy duvet
daughters of a spirit mother with their heads under their wings.
Akrafjall and Skarðsheiði are like purple dreams.
Nothing is more beautiful than a spring evening in Reykjavík.
 
Silence reigns around Ingólf and every tear there is depleted
ensuring relief from the debauchees with their empty bottles.
They sleep soundly with drooping eyelids,
southerly winds mildly brush cheeks and hair.
There is an aroma of grass and the smell of dust,
the setting sun casts a purple hue in the west.
Akrafjall and Skarðsheiði are like purple dreams.
Nothing is more beautiful than a spring evening in Reykjavík.
 
But Akrafjall and Skarðsheiði are like purple dreams.
Nothing is more beautiful than a spring evening in Reykjavík.