It is so strange,
the photograph
I was given of you,
because the man in it
is me
and not me.

It is me
in costume
it is me at a distance
squinted into focus.

Everything
I do not know
about myself
has been buried
with you.

As I
settle
into a man
I do not know
I’ve become
a mystery
to myself.

How many times
have I laughed
coughed
whispered
heard
your voice
echoing through me.

How many times
have I missed you
waving back at me
from behind
every mirror
while I
shaved
washed my hands
cut my hair.

How many times
have you touched me
with my own hand.

My inheritance
probably lies
in habits
that annoy me the most.

The sound
I make
clearing my throat
the broad toss
of my chest
when I walk
or the desolate
silence
we shared in our heads
in our empty rooms
in our isolated youth.

How many times
have we been
so alone
we overlooked
one another
standing
as close
as any man
can
to his own
shadow.

^{translated from the Icelandic by Christopher Burawa}

This poem which is a part of my life
must live on as my life: Aragon’s sun
reaching down to me. Snow flurries melting
as they fall on the slopes of Moncayo.
An April day when everything seems alive.

The peal of bells soaks into the centuries-old shadows,
and colorful butterflies tumble in the breeze,
hover above me
and settle on my book,
which lies forgotten in my hands.

Verönd 

Þetta ljóð sem er hluti af ævi minni 
mun líða eins og hún. Sól Aragón 
hremmir mig. Snjóa leysir 
í hlíðum Moncayo. 
Apríldagur þegar allt verður lifandi. 
Bjöllur koma fljúgandi úr aldagömlu myrkri 
og marglitt fiðrildi birtist í þyrlulíki, 
hangir í loftinu fyrir ofan mig 
og hættir við að setjast á bókina 
sem er opin en óskrifuð 
í hendi minni.