It is here the stones speak a language that is neither Icelandic nor English. It is an eruption of physical presence.
Whatever words we who are human speak, it is no less and no more than this ability to walk through bodies lifted into the air until they become it, and then to breathe them in the same moment as our walking.
This breathing is our way of talking to our ancestors, who the living call the dead. They’re hardly dead.
Not as long as we keep walking among them.
Not as long as we continue to honour them with devotion to each other.
Let us listen with all that we are.
Let us trust the old paths of care.
Let us honour the conversation and the giving forth and the point at which we become the earth at the point that it becomes us.
For it either goes on without us or with us, and we can so be there.
Let us be honourable children. Let us be there.
Let us give praise, however we can.
For we are all the living.
Let us rejoice.