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withdrawn and limp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.