og hurfu mér sýn
inn í nóttina myrkrið og nóttina."
- Snorri Hjartarson
Now that the world has ended
we finally can speak frankly,
as all the things you've held inside
were outside anyway,
larger than you ever knew
like everything you never saw,
for everything you saw was there
because it needs your eye
not because it was all
there was to see.
You never were alive
in the way you thought you were
but in the way that rocks and knowledge are,
and after all this gasp of time
you thought you were alone
you were sharing your brain all along
(the thickness of a cranium was no test for a friend),
it was just like the playgrounds of your childhood,
they never really ended, it never really mattered
that the sand was not the earth
and your shovel not the hand of mighty God.
It's time to go back home now
for a juice box and a nap,
how many things you knew that you could do, if not for hands.
You thought that there was never time enough
but there was only time
to take of distant vistas what you could,
to get as close as eyes and hands and voices would allow,
pretending it was real with all your soul
as if it was itself and not your
breath that made it actual.
Your mourning days are over.
This light would seem too vivid,
its strokes too magnified
when you were piecing out
the parts of you disguised
in people who needed your help
or who wanted you to die
or begged for the forgiveness
you never gave -
how small that all seemed then, but now how large,
larger than the sunlight that you worshiped,
to travel cross such infinite extents
to find: yourself, unborn;
in the universe past time
this feeling is what's new
what the hand of God on something small would feel like,
what it means to see it all in one detail,
how love is just a vehicle, on the other
side of light there is the eye
beyond the mind, beyond kind
we always knew, despite how far,
would still be there.
