I took a last stroll in the silent dampness of Hólavallagarður. Such a melancholy place during the autumnal months. It’s all fallen leaves and rowan’s tiny pomes. And rotting graves, fading flowers and forgotten angel figurines. I bid my farewell to all the little children sleeping in the womb of that mossy soil, to the nameless crosses falling to pieces, to the entwined hands and to Jón Sigurðsson with his unassuming tombstone concealed in the intricacy of the contorted trees.
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