torsdag 17. mars 2011


No 17

when the snow comes
with an emergency landing across the moor

and spreads its wings across the fields
with black frost

I can see the summer dying
in the mouth of a small child

I can read from the lips of the moon
that is turning thinner and thinner

before they disappear
in blue defiance

as a kiss flavoured with the lumps of course salt
from the ocean

(17 from kjensla av at det ikkje regnar andre stader enn her 2004 translated into english by Hilde Petra Brungot)

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