She was invited to a dance. "Poo," she thought. "I have no party clothes." Sitting sadly at home that evening in a sty, her soliloquy would have floated away in the cold night air but for one little memory, half forgotten. A voice chiming in the arctic breeze, a voice half remembered, sang its enchantment~
Móðir mín í kví, kví
kvíddu ekki því, því
ég skal ljá þér duluna mína
duluna mína að dansa í
ég skal ljá þér duluna mína
duluna mína að dansa í
að dansa í
Was it more than wind on the frozen grass? Echoing within her, an empty place recalled the last words ever spoken, spoken by her only daughter sent outside to freeze: to die.
My mother in the sty, sty
don't worry because, because
I shall loan you these cloth rags of mine
my rags to dance in
I shall loan you these cloth rags of mine
my rags to dance in
to dance in