Iceland is not only nature we have our concrete around us like most of the world. Here is a poem I once wrote after moving into a concrete caste a la department building. I used to call the place Horror Hills. Ok I might be a bit dramatic, but hey there is something really really strange about living like bees or ants and everyone is trying to be the queen bee.

C a s t l e s

The evidence is clear.
On the concrete pavement
the earthworms die.
Their struggle for life is
like inside out earth.
With out the force of life.

Conclusion is clear.
Concrete is death
earth is life.

We make veins of death all over her,
so our shoes wont get dirty,
so we can move faster,
towards the illusion
that we can actually save time.

As I walk the concrete path
in the footsteps of the workers
white, blue, professional collar
I see concrete castles towering all around me.
I live in one with 100 of others.
I have looked for signs of happiness
but I only find the hollow despair of meaninglessness.

What is the meaning of all these people
to follow a time plan that doesn't fit anyone?
It's just convenient for the machine
that makes the castles
and so called stability.

What stability?

So why do they do it?
Why do they work like slaves
for yet another payment plan?
Do they think happiness is hidden within the habit?

Oh I have tried to break from this routine
but surviving is not the same today as it used to be.

The structure is sneaky,
it feeds our children with propaganda
fed by the institutes we put them in,
the day they are born.

They think children feel safe if they have
batman shoes and
a room filled with toys.
But no share of the time
their parents strive so hard to save.

And time slips,
slips,
between fingers like
grains of sand.

And still they work so hard

to save time. To save,
save...

...but they only lose,
lose the cord,
to themselves,
to earth,
to the children of earth.

And I can't find happiness
within the concrete castles.

So I throw away all my kilos of possession.
Burn them in a ritual
of cleansing.
And I run so much lighter,
into a time where I never need to save,
because time flows with my own inner clock.
Not the one that ticks tocks inside Big Ben.

Mine doesn't even have tick tock.
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You can find this poem in my book Wake Up, there are still a few copies available from the special edtion of 100 numbered copies, each one is a unique book. Click here to get more info about Wake Up. You can order directly online.