Ljóð í safnritinu Brushstrokes of Blue: The Young Poets of Iceland. Páll Valsson ritstýrði. David McDuff þýddi ljóð Sigfúsar.
Úr Brushstrokes of Blue:
to be and
this business of to be
and
not to be
is really rather simple
no question
just a chronic habit.
(25)
the Wall Street Journal forecasts drought
before the guerillas
turned for the seventh time to the mountains
they buried their fallen comrades
like potatoes in the sand
smoothed over the fresh plot
and vanished away
so that the wind might rage on
alone and free and unhindered
over the old monuments
out to the mountainless plain
about haciendas and factories
about the deserts alone and empty
except if they might be blowing
in the dark blue light
in circles amidst paper litter
one or two ghosts
with flickering heads that talk
they walked stooped
with their weight of cut-price rifles
beans and ammunition
for the seventh time the same way
over dusty passes and paths
over ancient abondoned settlements
under stunted trees
and chewed the patient coca leaves
while the shadows lengthened
and the whispering of hollow voices murmured to them
out of caves and bushes
murmured a fragment of the memory of generations
about that eternal solitude
that rises in an endlessly climbing turn
at last they stopped briefly
took a lungful of darkness
then disappeared into the night
armed with grins and that myth
that is longer than a circular line
and the whispering howled away
in whirlwinds amidst paper litter
alone as usual in the desert
under the jagged shadow
of the old condor.
(27-28)