Heima

Heathen it is,
When we build a home for ourselves
Upon the earthly soil
With no other hope for salvation
Than the cage of the present tense.
Believer, cursed are thou, woe
When you shatter the bridges
That the world so freely offers
As a gift from nowhere
As a shelter of anxiety and glory
From the deaf calm of the infinite.
So human it is, when we abandon the churches
To plow the indomitable lands of forefathers
Over and over, each and every generation
To build the little houses with hands our own
And inhabit them the glee
Only through the vesper of life.
We´re digging out present hopes for future dwellers
That will watch the houses fall
Before they themselves again plow and build.
This might be what they once called home,
That despair, when you know, that the house you finish not.