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Fireside. Poem by Hannes Pétursson.
For Eldhyl, Hannes received the Icelandic Literature Prize.
Bell poem (part)
A long time ago, a traveler rode alone along a road. It was summer. He came to an ancient deserted valley. By then the sun had set over the mountains. He dismounted his horse and lay down to sleep in a peat bog by the riding road. That night he had a dream: He felt as if he were listening closely to the ground there in the peat and then someone spoke to him in a clear voice. He could not make out whether the voice came from below, where he was standing, or from another direction, but he certainly heard that it came to him from the ground. When he woke up, he remembered what had been said to him and occasionally recounted it to others later in life. In the dream he heard it said - according to what is now known: For a long time I have lain in this soil. I was laid under a pile of straw, a hidden household item for storage between seasons. At another moment a hand came and lifted me from the ground and rang me, then the hammers took over . . . a hand, a hand that knew how I was made: Vox mea est bamba. Possum depellere Satan! I learned in those moments, stopulum, above the soil what strength my old sound gives - and peace is evil spirits, equally from the east and the west, hew fearful souls that scatter in two. I, a guardian bell, proclaimed high over the valley the call that is burned in me with clear letters: Vox mea est bamba. Possum depellere Satan! I learned in those moments, stopulum, above the soil a fixed eye, an ear that trembles and a knee that trembles, when the well-known surroundings become frighteningly sudden, like sold to the Devil. I, a guardian bell, proclaimed high over the valley the call that was cast into my metal: Vox mea est bamba. Possum depellere Satan!
For Eldhyl, Hannes received the Icelandic Literature Prize.
Bell poem (part)
A long time ago, a traveler rode alone along a road. It was summer. He came to an ancient deserted valley. By then the sun had set over the mountains. He dismounted his horse and lay down to sleep in a peat bog by the riding road. That night he had a dream: He felt as if he were listening closely to the ground there in the peat and then someone spoke to him in a clear voice. He could not make out whether the voice came from below, where he was standing, or from another direction, but he certainly heard that it came to him from the ground. When he woke up, he remembered what had been said to him and occasionally recounted it to others later in life. In the dream he heard it said - according to what is now known: For a long time I have lain in this soil. I was laid under a pile of straw, a hidden household item for storage between seasons. At another moment a hand came and lifted me from the ground and rang me, then the hammers took over . . . a hand, a hand that knew how I was made: Vox mea est bamba. Possum depellere Satan! I learned in those moments, stopulum, above the soil what strength my old sound gives - and peace is evil spirits, equally from the east and the west, hew fearful souls that scatter in two. I, a guardian bell, proclaimed high over the valley the call that is burned in me with clear letters: Vox mea est bamba. Possum depellere Satan! I learned in those moments, stopulum, above the soil a fixed eye, an ear that trembles and a knee that trembles, when the well-known surroundings become frighteningly sudden, like sold to the Devil. I, a guardian bell, proclaimed high over the valley the call that was cast into my metal: Vox mea est bamba. Possum depellere Satan!