Night’s brittle song, sliver-thin
Shatters into a billion fragments
Of quiet shadows
At the blaring jazz
Of a morning sun.
28 January 2013
14 January 2013
4 January 2013
|ανάπαυση ~ rest 013 ©fourteenth|
The string quintet is playing. I walk home through warm forests with the
ground springy under me,
curl up like an embryo, fall asleep, roll weightless into the future, suddenly
feel that the plants have thoughts.
by Tomas Tranströmer
translated by Robert Fulton
thanks to tuvala