I’m not angry anymore.
Tantrums on the floor
never got me my way.
Pounding on the door
never got me my way
anyway.
Góða mamma, myrkrið kemur,
myrkrið er nú mær í nánd.
Hvar ert tú tá ið á stendur
og óttin tekur yvirhond?
Anyway,
it’s not as though
I had it like those
war orphans who died
waiting for daylight,
withdrawn and limp
in makeshift cribs
after being fed
and carelessly left
to fade into dream.
So why do I keep
nursing this blame?
I can’t complain.
I can’t complain.
Góða mamma, ljósið brennur,
men eg fari at sovna brátt.
Ætlar tú ikki at koma og
ynskja mær eina góða nátt?
Why do I keep
nursing this blame?
I can’t complain.
I can’t complain.
I had my cloth mother,
my cloth mother.
Góða mamma, man eg gloyma,
gloyma tað ónda eg havi sæð?
Langt langt burtur eg meg droymi,
men vakni her í sama stað.
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