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Mömmumont
Föstudagur 21. apríl 2023 kl. 06:05

Mömmumont

Ég má til með að nota þennan virðulega lokaorðavettvang til að deila neðangreindu ljóði með ykkur, ljóði sem fjórtán ára sonur minn, Helgi Matthías, hristi fram úr erminni í síðustu viku, algjörlega að eigin frumkvæði. Keflavíkurhjartað slær greinilega sem aldrei fyrr, þrátt fyrir tæplega tveggja ára fjarveru. Hann skrifar á ensku og vildi með þessu meðal annars reyna að lýsa bænum sínum fyrir skólafélögunum hér í París. Honum tekst með fallegum ljóðrænum hætti að blanda sögunni saman við persónueinkenni bæjarbúa og upplifanir – hvort sem um er að ræða fiskilykt, magnaða norðurljósasýn eða kjötsúpubragð. Mamman er að springa úr monti (já og við foreldrarnir bæði) og fannst hvergi betri staður til að frumsýna þennan fína Keflavíkurbrag heldur en hér, að sjálfsögðu með leyfi höfundar.

The old Keflavík Streets

Katrín Jakobsdóttir forsetafr
Katrín Jakobsdóttir forsetafr

The place which on stockfish and thick sheep feeds
Holds the airport and outside worlds precious keys
Raised by the defending land of the free
In the town which lays by the bone chilling sea

From eager sailors and entrepreneurs
To a place which to tourists acts as a lure
While its climate only the toughest can endure
Its water the best, and most of all, pure
And its clothing made from the finest, native fur

Around its people it provides a comforting hold
Whether it be to a slave whose existence has been sold
Someone who into school has never been enrolled
Or simply needs to warm oneself from the freezing cold

Its houses made of crooked and wavy steel
And off its foundations you feel it can almost peel
However, its sturdy support is greatly concealed
Even though it may not seem too real

The beautiful streets of disgusting fish reek
However, its source you don’t bother to seek
The gorgeous northern lights
Reveal the mystical activities of the night
And provide your eyes its lost sense of sight

The wistful wind becomes all you can hear
Occasionally and abruptly interrupted by the squeal of a seal
Or voice of a visiting monarch ordering you to kneel

Kjötsúpa becomes your mouths most memorable taste
So savoury you gulp it down with unmeasurable haste
No matter what ingredient in that soup has been placed

From afar we seem peaceful and weak
But even when the situation is hopeless and bleak
These words bring their hearts a fiery heat:
Áfram Keflavík!