To Karin Larsson
If a dog are busy to find it's wog
Or a frog are drowning in a lovely bog,
Any circle has it's own useless infinity
And fog of life are lifting - already one
Are lain like a log.
Even north mistaked and it must be warm;
Even birds leaved the sky - this empty form
Above one's head where blood in viens are boiling,
Where if you lose sight of somebody then
He is gone
For ever. In an imperceptible, tiny church
In the middle of the forgotten city in march
You are lit the candle. While the soul are opening
The folds of the corpse the fire are searching direction
In full silence.
He climb up in the darkness
And switch up the light.