TRANSTRÖMER, Tomas
A Page of the Night-Book
I stepped ashore one May night
in the cool moonshine
where grass and flowers were grey
but the scent green.
I glided up the slope
in the colour-blind night
while white stones
signalled to the moon.
A period of time
a few minutes long
fifty-eight years wide.
And behind me
beyond the lead-shimmering waters
was the other shore
and those who ruled.
People with a future
instead of a face.
Outskirts
Men in overalls the same color as earth rise from a ditch.
It’s a transitional place, in stalemate, neither country nor city.
Construction cranes on the horizon want to take the big leap,
but the clocks are against it.
Concrete piping scattered around laps at the light with cold tongues.
Auto-body shops occupy old barns.
Stones throw shadows as sharp as objects on the moon surface.
And these sites keep on getting bigger
like the land bought with Judas’ silver: “a potter’s field for
burying strangers.”
too late to fall asleep again.
with memories, they follow me with their gaze.
the background, true chameleons.
though the birdsong is deafening.
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om te ontwaken en te laat om weer in te slapen.
herinneringen, zij volgen mij met hun blik.
samen met hun achtergrond, perfecte kameleons.
hoewel de vogelzang oorverdovend is.
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En känsla som om folkmassor drog genom gatorna I blindhet och oro på väg till ett mirakel,
Medan jag osynligt förblir stående.
lyssnande till hjärtats tunga steg. Långt, långt tills morgonen sätter strålarna i låsen
och mörkrets dörrar öppnar sig.
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A feeling as if crowds drew through the streets In blindness and anxiety on the way toward a miracle,
while I invisibly remain standing.
listening to the heart’s heavy tread. Slowly, slowly until morning puts its rays in the locks
and the doors of darkness open
Een gevoel alsof volksmassa’s blind en onrustig door de straten trokken op weg naar een wonder,
terwijl ikzelf onzichtbaar blijf staan.
luisterend naar de zware stappen van zijn hart. Lang, lang tot de ochtend zijn stralen in de sloten legt
en de deuren van het donker opengaan.
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Storm
oak tree, like a petrified elk whose crown is furlongs wide before the September ocean’s
murky green fortress.
constellations stamping inside their stalls, high over the treetops.
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