Distilling the Waste
(pt. I)

Sibylla, the cruellest:
lilacs and desire.
Roots kept us warm
in forgetful snow.
A little life coming,
we stopped in sunlight,
drank coffee, echt deutsch.
Children took me, frightened,
down in the mountains
much of the night.
Roots grow. Son of man
cannot say.
The sun beats, crickets, no sound
of red rock. Red rock
will show you.
Behind you, rising.
Dust. Wind. Heimat. Kind. Du.
A year ago they called me.
Came back late, full eyes,
knew the silence. Das Meer,
famous, cold, known. Here
is your sailor.
Those are pearls, lady. Lady
of the wheel. The one-eyed merchant
he carries on his back. See the man
walking, dear.
Tell her one must.
Days, unreal
under the fog.
A crowd, so many. So
Infrequent eyes, up and down
the hours, final. I saw
one, you!
Last year has begun.
Sudden frost hence,
with nails, mon frère.

- Paal-Helge Haugen, March, not April, 2012 / Tilbake