This forest in May. It haunts my whole life:
the invisible moving van. Singing birds.
In silent pools, mosquito larvae’s
furiously dancing question marks.
I escape to the same places and same words.
Cold breeze from the sea, the ice-dragon’s licking
the back of my neck while the sun glares.
The moving van is burning with cool flames.
From the Island, 1860
One day as she rinsed her wash from the jetty,
the bay’s cold grave rose up through her arms
and into her life.
Her tears froze into spectacles.
The island raised itself by its grass
and the herring-flag waved in the deep.
And the swarm of small pox caught up with him,
settled down onto his face.
He lies and stares at the ceiling.
How it had rowed up through the silence.
The now’s eternally flowing stain,
the now’s eternally bleeding end-point.
Vertaald door Patty Crane
Tomas Tranströmer (15 april 1931 – 26 maart 2015)