De obehöriga

Poem By Liāna Langa

Plötsligt vaknade jag ur en djup sömn.
Bland skogens buskar gled min skugga.
Med nosarna pressade mot dimmans skålar
diade årtusenden ivrigt daggen.


Likt ett stort, blött och grönt teblad
lyste himlen in i mitt öga, utan att bli
skrämd av det snäva. Stjärnors skepp
tydde sig till mig, ett vrak.


Jag visste inte vad djuren ville säga mig,
jag förstod inte varför gästerna var stumma.
Jag var din nyckel, ett ungt vin,
som de gudfruktiga spärrat in i en tunna.


När mörkret ven i trans, splittrades
och kastade återsken av andra och åter andra
förgångenheter i mitt ansikte, av andra liv,
då dog i mig en stor del av mig.


Plötsligt vaknade jag ur en djup sömn,
i mitt ansikte sved dina hagelkorn.
Någon intill mig sa på ugglespråket gud,
och tom var din hand, helt tom.

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Other poems of LANGA

The Ones Who Don't Belong 1.

I wake suddenly from deep sleep.
In the forest's undergrowth my shadow roams.
Hundred-thousand-year greedy muzzles suck
moisture clinging to a vessel of mist.

The Ones Who Don't Belong 2.

Leaves frost-bitten by a harsh night rustle between my fingers.
A rook siddles closer
to a cross painted mud-colour. A white pebble thrown against
the cheap granite slab summons an echo

The Ones Who Don't Belong 3.

You say to me - summer? Stop! Too much of glowing flesh, glassy
grey light on eyelids, the odour of decaying melons. Maybe
a movie, ditam, ditam? Dipetti, dipetti, perhaps to the Antarctic?
Don't be angry. Escape heals, but only for a space of time, just until

The Ones Who Don't Belong 4.

Come, life's winter! In a corner of a window ledge a titmouse
pecks at a bit of bacon
whiter than the city's snow. Lemon yellow sunbeam bagpipes
tangle in tree branches sounding funeral marches. Racing clouds

The Ones Who Don't Belong 5.

A roadside garden queen boards the train Aizkraukle - Riga.
She's wearing rubber boots, a grey moustache
above a chapped mouth.

The Ones Who Don't Belong 6.

Farewell, homo mediocris! We dream and sleep still among roe
subtly rose. So slow their movement, so sticky. As if someone
will come shortly to glue our transparent flesh together.
We can do it ourselves! Just the water doesn't permit it,

Robert Frost

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening