Walked along the antipoetic wall.
Die Mauer. Don't look over.
It wants to surround our adult lives
in the routine city, the routine landscape.
Eluard touched some button
and the wall opened
and the garden showed itself.
I used to go with the milk pail through the wood.
Purple trunks on all sides.
An old joke in there
as beautiful as a votive ship.
Summer read out of Pickwick Papers.
The good life, a tranquil carriage
crowded with excited gentlemen.
Close your eyes, change horses.
In distress come childish thoughts.
We sat by the sickbed and prayed
for a pause in the terror, a breach
where the Pickwicks could pull in.
Close your eyes, change horses.
It is easy to love fragments
that have been on the way a long time.
Inscriptions on church bells
and proverbs written across saints
and many-thousand-year-old seeds.
Archilochos! -- No answer!
The birds roamed over the seas' rough pelt.
We locked ourselves in with Simenon
and felt the smell of human life
where the serials debouch.
Feel the smell of truth.
The open window has stopped
in front of the treetops here
and the evening sky's farewell letter.
Shiki, Björling and Ungaretti
with life's chalks on the death's blackboard.
The poem which is completely possible.
I looked up when the branches swung.
White gulls were eating black cherries.
by Tomas Tranströmer (translated from the Swedish by May Swenson)
