Bright moonlit night as we take to bed.
Lay two brothers and both asleep,
the mother awake and the light passes,
the calm is the prelude to what awaits.
Fourteen on the farm, we burned inside,
the children in their grandmother's arms.
The doors wedged and the windows blocked.
Small is the hand that scratches the walls.
Unremarkable craven and a pauper,
brotherless and no-one’s spouse.
Laid fire to your roof.
The doors wedged and the windows blocked.
Small is the hand that scratches the walls.
Sea – which an eagle gazed over
saw the army at Bæjartjörn.
Inside innocent children burned.
The doors wedged and the windows blocked.
Small is the hand that scratches the walls.
My son woke up never again,
my little daughter could not come of age.
Burned was my foot and might broken,
the farm collapsed and onto me a rafter.
Then to me finally came slurred speech and delirium,
there I died under the living room wall.
The doors wedged and the windows blocked.
Small is the hand that scratches the walls.
Scorches hand and flesh.
Heating dirt beneath.
Fire burns bone,
melting wishing stone.
The sun rises anew and shows us the farm,
over gnats buzz and color the fresh breeze.
No life to see and never will I waken,
no one tells and what is then there to miss?
The sun rises anew and shows us the farm,
gnats buzzing over and color the fresh breeze.
No life to see and never will I waken,
no one tells ...
no one tells ...
no one tells ...
Scorches hand and flesh.
Heating dirt beneath.
Fire burns bone,
melting wishing stone.
Scorches hand and flesh.
Heating dirt beneath.
Fire burns bone,
melting wishing stone.