Sorgen über eine Energieverknappung müssen sich die Isländer nicht machen:
Die isländische Kapelle
Dynfari mit "Sorg"
The lyrics by the Icelandic poet Jóhann Sigurjónsson (1880-1919) :
Sorrow
Woe, woe, over the fallen city!
Where are your streets,
Your towers,
And the sea of light, the pleasure of the night?
As a coral in a deep sea
You were under the blue sky,
As a buckle made of washed silver
You rested on the breasts of the earth.
Woe, woe! In dark wells, poison snakes dwell
And the night laments over your ruins
The mist of life hurls to the skies
Men in full riding armor,
Hysterical women in golden carts –
Give me salt to eat, so my tongue may wrinkle in
My mouth
And my mourning silence
On white horses we treaded up the arching blue sky
And played with golden balls
We hung in darknesses‘ mane
As it plunged through the depths As the moon‘s shine we slept on the waves of the sea
What are those mountains, that collapse over my sorrow,
Necks, who cover my nudity with powder?
In eternity‘s obscurity flies a red dragon
And spews poison.
Sun by sun, collapse like raindrops
And bear new life, and a new sorrow