The first lightpost on St. Coll.
She´s absent for now, but don´t you worry, she´ll be back in a daytime, --in the daylight.

In the high key of his tone of voice he arose and cotton on how beautiful the dull dancer was in the distance of his heartbeat, how his heart went pit-a-pat as she ambled across the floor like the mice parade from hole to hole. And her wondrous das in the atrium became speechless and the dumfound in the soft air was oh so full of charm and joy, and when they hark back on the good times it still lures a smile upon every rum-drinking lips in town, it´s like an array of thousand peeresses marching into every canton but still hiding in only one woman, --the dancer on the hills, folding in audacity with pride and mooching prattle with the gnomic tone. The sconce is never empty when she´s around. But, ere long, the tavern was as shivery as midnight in the blackest fall, every song was dim and cold, drab and bold. When she came along there was like a nativity after another, the dawn has risen again through every window and the shutters drawed back to revert into the gloomy bleakness miles away. Oh, yea... they skipped the day. --When she arrived the chrysalis went off our lungs and the quick squall we heard in the remoteness blenched quietly within a minute or two, they were calling for the black-and-white tint for its return trip back home.

Please, be quiet... the beast inside of us all! Please, be still! In every pile there´s a dancefloor for you to step on. Please, stay calm. You won´t be alone when you die. Oh, no... you won´t die alone.  
Viktor Kaldalóns
1987 - ...

Ljóð eftir Viktor Kaldalóns

Sær í átt að sæng.
Ástarljóð til hins visna.
Minn kæri vin... það mun versna.
Málverk stöðnunar.
St. Coll.
Windows blow in like ten thousand ice floes upon the snowy quarters.
The brighter side of the day goes down in three, two, one...
The first lightpost on St. Coll.
My date of birth kept in memory of a bartender (pt. one).
My date of birth kept in memory of a bartender (pt. two).
It feels like dying, you know...
Our graves undulate with fever.
Fáninn lágreisti.
The regent roads to nowhere; the end of the world.
Just like the corner of all nights.
Just like the corner of the day...
Anddyrið kringum sviðið.
Væg túlkun.
The dead queen and us.
Endir á litblæ, hulinn bær.
Líflaus blómstrun.
Skýrar, en þó svo daufar.
Dálæti; og ástin bíður ósigur.
Brotin umgjörð.
Svartur er sjórinn.
Horfin fjarvera.
Og allt varð grátt.
Ljóðið fannst aldrei.
The lively queen and us.
Tilvonandi Eilífðartími.
Dökk spor.
Í eyði.
The prime of the queen.
Sýningin tælandi á sviði slökknandi borgarljósa.
Upstream they went towards the valley.
Contiguous grapevine, old and all around.
Carry a no-win mist inside God´s acre.
With only a wire and death attached.
Drizzling in tween the rest.
Without a pole star and wherries to take us home.
I will leave you dumfounded just like before.
Heilög borg?
Well lit allure of anesthesia.
My naked naiad.
Pharisaic lifetime of a saint.
Einfari; loftmengun.
Þú og ég.
Örvilnun skýjaglópana.
Sjónarhorn skuggsælla engla í sorgarklæðum.
Lof efstu svalanna.
Það er að stytta upp.
Vöggugjöf launmorðingjans.
Fjárhagsörðugleikar nútímablíðu.
Von er...
Vonleysi er...