It's so small that the whole body of it
could fit into the heart of a big city.

It's the magical city of seasons
where the length of day is never the same.

It's where the weather Gods
pull the strings of human behavior.

Reykjavík has mountains
hugging its borders
and ocean sealing it
with roaring waves.

It wakes up during the midnight hour
and breaks out of the cold mask of stress
to play in the company of Bacchus.
To be surrounded in metallic barbarism
while the sensation takes its toll.

Hangover and cold turkey colors the streets
with empty bottles and broken promises.

A leaf with all the colors of autumn
flies inside the blindfolded window.
To remind that there is more
than the habitual rhythm of despair.