The March to the Kremlin #86445
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The March to the Kremlin. Poem by Þórberg Þórðarson.
"A strange thing to die"
— and cannot die,
not allowed to refuse in a hollow shaft
with hands down by your sides,
hands that coordinated letters
about the Kremlin and the extinction of life,
A glass of wine with Gunna,
Porridge, haddock and lamb were served.
Not being allowed to lie with closed nostrils,
lie with nostrils together,
who loved the smell of mold,
fragrance from flowers and trees,
the smell of flesh and sweat.
Not to be allowed to lie with useless eyes,
useless mirrors of life,
nor delight in worm-eaten ears,
who used to bathe
the philharmonic orchestra is roaring
and giggles at charming chicks.
"A strange thing to die"
— and cannot die,
not allowed to refuse in a hollow shaft
with hands down by your sides,
hands that coordinated letters
about the Kremlin and the extinction of life,
A glass of wine with Gunna,
Porridge, haddock and lamb were served.
Not being allowed to lie with closed nostrils,
lie with nostrils together,
who loved the smell of mold,
fragrance from flowers and trees,
the smell of flesh and sweat.
Not to be allowed to lie with useless eyes,
useless mirrors of life,
nor delight in worm-eaten ears,
who used to bathe
the philharmonic orchestra is roaring
and giggles at charming chicks.