The palm tree is strong
as the wind is green.
The rage we once
called holy.
The language that once
had a direction.
The future that once
rebounded
onto us.
The indifference now
that I myself have come along
around the sun
forty-four times.
The indifference now
that the closed cycle
opens its doors.
The indifference
in this insufferable
image of reality.
Teach me to repeat
the future now,
while we are being born.
Let my mind fly up
into its nest
in the depths
of the rustling crown.
Let the eggs shine
with an afterglow
like milky sun.
Let the wind be green
and sorrow slaked.
*
A sorrow
that speaks
in clusters
of concealing
light.
So simply that light
gets the eye to see
that it is light
in the rustling
darkness.
So simply
that light is as fast
as the eye is a hole.
So easily
when the closed cycle
opens its doors,
as easily as anything,
as in the distant
acacias'
glowing
grave mounds,
the world
so killed
and buried
then and there
in light,
light
that stands still,
so easily
in April
in the April
of pain
when acacias
see me
as my mother did
when I was born.
And while I draw
and map out
whole continents
between kin
and sorrow,
the revolution turns,
hanging suspended,
and the feeling
that never leads out
is for a moment
outside
itself
and illuminated
in the dead,
inconsolable
visible
and the silence
has doors everywhere.
translated from the Danish by Susanna Nied
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