Glamping #8133
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Glampar. Poem by G.Ó. Fells.
The harp.
The poet:
I bow to you, harp, I look at your strings,
Look in humility, both firmly and for a long time.
There the tones slumber. Wait a moment, my longing!
Bragi - can I wake them up?
Taste:
You are allowed the harp; let the strings
its echo, both bright and long.
But her tones are broken,
Bloodthirsty, — quite a brawler!
Remember, it is best for you to let
then there is no room for excess.
Remember, they are children of the poor,
hot-blooded, quite a bit of a brawler!
The harp.
The poet:
I bow to you, harp, I look at your strings,
Look in humility, both firmly and for a long time.
There the tones slumber. Wait a moment, my longing!
Bragi - can I wake them up?
Taste:
You are allowed the harp; let the strings
its echo, both bright and long.
But her tones are broken,
Bloodthirsty, — quite a brawler!
Remember, it is best for you to let
then there is no room for excess.
Remember, they are children of the poor,
hot-blooded, quite a bit of a brawler!