I made a deal with the Gods of this country
They will let me do a fréttamynd (reporting) here
If I serve them a drykkur (drink) of light
And a kir sólber (black currant) mixed with champagne

I made a deal with the gods
A little paper bylting (revolution)
I am the rithöfundur (writer) of the gods
Meet me in my silver lyfta (lift)

Before this world goes up in reykur (smoke)
A sendiherra (ambassador) read my article
He dipped his fat lips in whiskey
The klukka (clock) announced midnight

The ghost of a tónskáld (composer) appeared
He made a silent bow to us
A single stjarna (star) shone behind his shoulder
Through the open window, in the forgetful night.

I made a deal with the gods here
An invisible svanur (swan) accompanies me everywhere
In the asphalt sundlaug (pool) of Reykjavik
I question the witnesses of each life

And every life seems to me a mystery to be taken seriously
I question every blade of grass, every God
The children of the country look at me whispering
What hammingja (happiness) to work with them

I who am the journalist of these hills
The narrator of these dusty palaces
The editor of every line of sky
And my life is a dómkirkja (cathedral) of ink

That flows and flows into the river of the future
Carrying with it the hringur (ring) of sobriety
I am the rithöfundur (writer) of this country’s laughter
And I have made a deal with the deities here

They’ll let me film their enchanted talks
If I burn after each of my films,
So that the smoke makes them a vaporous cloak
The himinn (sky) is witness to my wish

I am the only journalist accepted by the Gods