Rog metal and grey silver # 87539
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Rógmálmur og grásilfur. Poems and translations by Dag Sigurðarson.
Here are, in addition to Dag's original poems, his translations of: - Four Preludes on the Golden Wind by Carl Sandburg. - America by Allen Ginsberg. - A Hermit; The Rain; Ecuador; Ode to Emiliano Zapato with music by Tata Nacho; Cortés; The Crimes; Hungry in the South; Eufrosino Ramírez; Quilareyr; The Dictators; Southern Winter, on Horseback; The Heart by Pedro de Valivia; The Prison; The Other Wave by Pablo Neruda. - The Mob by César Vallejo.
The Prime Minister's dream.
The house stood on the outskirts of the city, a three-story wooden building. Red light shone from the windows. The Prime Minister was not surprised.
The hail hurt his fat cheeks. The Frenchman flapped like a flag of twenty.
The Prime Minister kept his hat on so that he wouldn't get caught in this storm.
The Prime Minister was trembling. How had he gotten here? Where was the ministerial car? Nowhere to be seen.
Finally, the Prime Minister decided to walk to the house and call. Anything was better than taking the public bus home.
The door opened. The communists came to the door and pulled him inside.
- Are you here, the thing?
The Prime Minister trembled. The cuffs of his coat trembled.
The men were red and puffy-faced, with a gleam of hunger in their eyes, and ready to go. Two of them threw the Prime Minister onto the table and held him by the hands and feet. Two more took a large saw and began sawing him apart at the waist. The fifth sat by, sharpening his front teeth with a fine file, and watched.
- My clothes! My clothes! My nice clothes! wailed the Prime Minister: My dress clothes!
- Yes, we know that, said the one holding the hands: The whole world is one big piece of clothing.
"Registered trademark!" cursed the one holding the paws. The trainer growled.
The saw bit badly. The Prime Minister suffered agonizing pain. Shares sprouted from the wound instead of intestines, silver dollars instead of blood.
"Is that the stomach?" asked the maid. She was standing over him with breakfast tea.
Yes, it was the stomach. Nothing seemed to help this stomach. Neither surgeries nor public eating trips.
Here are, in addition to Dag's original poems, his translations of: - Four Preludes on the Golden Wind by Carl Sandburg. - America by Allen Ginsberg. - A Hermit; The Rain; Ecuador; Ode to Emiliano Zapato with music by Tata Nacho; Cortés; The Crimes; Hungry in the South; Eufrosino Ramírez; Quilareyr; The Dictators; Southern Winter, on Horseback; The Heart by Pedro de Valivia; The Prison; The Other Wave by Pablo Neruda. - The Mob by César Vallejo.
The Prime Minister's dream.
The house stood on the outskirts of the city, a three-story wooden building. Red light shone from the windows. The Prime Minister was not surprised.
The hail hurt his fat cheeks. The Frenchman flapped like a flag of twenty.
The Prime Minister kept his hat on so that he wouldn't get caught in this storm.
The Prime Minister was trembling. How had he gotten here? Where was the ministerial car? Nowhere to be seen.
Finally, the Prime Minister decided to walk to the house and call. Anything was better than taking the public bus home.
The door opened. The communists came to the door and pulled him inside.
- Are you here, the thing?
The Prime Minister trembled. The cuffs of his coat trembled.
The men were red and puffy-faced, with a gleam of hunger in their eyes, and ready to go. Two of them threw the Prime Minister onto the table and held him by the hands and feet. Two more took a large saw and began sawing him apart at the waist. The fifth sat by, sharpening his front teeth with a fine file, and watched.
- My clothes! My clothes! My nice clothes! wailed the Prime Minister: My dress clothes!
- Yes, we know that, said the one holding the hands: The whole world is one big piece of clothing.
"Registered trademark!" cursed the one holding the paws. The trainer growled.
The saw bit badly. The Prime Minister suffered agonizing pain. Shares sprouted from the wound instead of intestines, silver dollars instead of blood.
"Is that the stomach?" asked the maid. She was standing over him with breakfast tea.
Yes, it was the stomach. Nothing seemed to help this stomach. Neither surgeries nor public eating trips.