Guðrið Hansdóttir - Cloth Mother

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withdrawn and limp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.