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OBSTFELDER, Sigbjørn




Sommer!


Væv mig en kaabe, som rødmer,

spind den af taage, knyt den af straaler,

dyp den i nellikeblod!


Væv mig en kjole, som skjælver –

aspebladvævet, dugperleknappet,

heftet med spindelvævtraad!


Sy mig et belte, som funkler –

lokkende lygtmænd, hoppende ildblus

funkle paa himmelblaa grund!


Sy mig saa noget, der hvisker!

smilende spænder, sommerfuglvinger,

– legende kolibrisko!


Summer!


Weave me a coat that turns crimson,

spin it from mist, knit it from rays of light,

dip it in carnation's blood!


Weave me a dress that trembles –

woven from aspen leaves, stitched with cobweb threads,

buttoned with pearls of dew!


Make me a belt that glitters –

alluring will-o'–the-wisp, leaping flames

sparkle on sky-blue soil!


Sew me something that whispers!

smiling buckles, summer bird wings

– whimsical humming bird shoes!


Translated by Nadia Christensen




Cease thy play


Be mute, song-notes,

Be mute, thou wondrous music

of night,

so the words can ring out,

can trickle like poison

forth from my soul.

For I yearn to be delivered from suffering.

Cease thy play,

thou nature, who uprearest thee

mutely above mortal destinies.

I will hearken to the word within me

and find what is true.

Soon will the morning be here

with its wonderful sun,

and its throbbing life,

– then will the words die upon my lips.

Therefore night,

lure them forth,

these dancing words, these dying words,

Upon thy black ground shall my words

flash.