Melancholic Volcanoes’ song

The morning is a hazy as the sun while setting yesterday, and Reykjanes black Peninsula is longing for my explorations. I start with Kleifarvtn Lake’s immensity, smooth and blue of the grey sky, I feel so tiny on the top of the volcanic mound that should open my eyes to the ocean if the sky was not foggy. I tour and detour the lake where rocks stand like Sioux chiefs, where caves dig little by little bigger and bigger, where mountains surround me like sharp teeth. I linger around the ugly smoky and thundering pit that could blind me with a single drop of mud and I gaze at the earth’s wrinkles because of the heat.
I walked volcanoes’s angers whose lava created dug and desolated barrens, disturbed in their black mess by some random seeds blown by opposite winds in order to spread flowers never named fighters even if they share the same nature. Thus, three blooms shine, brave in their hollow roots. Nature, even in the most unwelcoming land, always finds its way and blazes.

4×4 wheels pierce Krisuvikurberg red cliffs in the same time as the sun. The smell is suffocating, the air is full of the untired seagull’s scream and their whitish streak that they add to Nature’s masterpiece. And in the middle of the endless plateau pass three sheep.
I untiringly follow the roady tongue as grey as the earth is black, surrounded by moss fields, sharp volcanoes fields that the sky covered with a grey duvet; I am going to the edge of my first very hot spring in the ocher valley. Both aarth and water rumbling covered by Gunna’s laments that still cry on my waterproof jacket as the spring cloud lingers above my head, blend with the industry’s smoke. My blue lagoon lake, the ocher soil and universal waters’ steam unify to color my Icelandic time.
At some point of the day, no mater what time since hours don’t know how to count so close to the Pole, I stop nearby Valahnúkamöl plateau, hanging above the sea. I picture people standing here, on this vertiginous piece of land maybe, each on one side of the continent when Pangaea split, hearts and hands tending towards each other like a last attempt to preserve the world they had always known. My imagination is fed by this lovely old couple – he is wearing in 1940 straps and hat matching his brand new sneakers, she put her best black dress and her hiking shoes – still crazy in love as they immortalize their journey with a selfie they will probably send to their never-ending family.
Then I furtively wander in the heart of one Stampar craters, used in the old days as point of reference by the fishermen, that raises in the moon black desert, now eroded by time. My day ends, rich and tired, with the worlds’ partition at Miðlína, whose bridge promise love in front of the ocean.
This new endless Icelandic day taught me so much, it took all my liveliness because my nights are getting as short as the sleepless summer sun. I run after sleep and my poesy flies away with my fatigue. I sometimes get stunned, I often take this wonder for granted. Yet, I keep travelling, eager, this rocky desert without always understanding its geological stories hidden in stones.

Rocky weight
Ancestral volume
Still heart but alive
One thousand years landforms
or maybe more millions of years
Eternal summit
absolutely immortal
Who took the winter sky’s
colors
to splash
each of your side
multiple and shinning?
Who drew
each of your bounces
each of your feeling in stones’
heart?
Where did your freezing anger flee
universal deflagration
stopping our running world?
Your dark and hard tears
older than us
older than the world
remain
frozen in their run towards the sea
broken in flowers’song
Flatey Island – 6/08/2019