The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Friday, March 20, 2020

Excerpt from Solitude

                       II

I have been walking a while
on the frozen Swedish fields
and I have seen no one.

In other parts of the world
people are born, live, and die
in a constant human crash.

To be visible all the time - to live
in a swarm of eyes -
surely that leaves its mark on the face.
Features overlaid with clay.

The low voices rise and fall
as they divide up
heaven, shadows, grain of sand.

I have to be by myself
ten minutes every morning,
ten minutes every night,
- and nothing to be done!

We all line up to ask each other for help.

Millions.

One.


--Tomas Transtromer
Translated by Robert Bly

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