After a Long, Dry Spell- Tomas Tranströmer (translated by Robert Bly)
The weather is grey now, strange evening
rain creeps down from the sky
and lands silently on the field
as if it intended to overpower a sleeper.
Circles swarm on the fjord's surface;
and that is the only surface there is right now,
the rest is height and depth:
to rise and to sink.
Two pine trunks shoot up
and continue in long, hollow signal-drums.
Cities and the sun gone off.
In the high grass there is thunder.
It's ok to telephone the island that is a mirage.
It's ok to listen to that grey voice.
To thunder, iron ore is honey.
It's ok to live by your own code.
rain creeps down from the sky
and lands silently on the field
as if it intended to overpower a sleeper.
Circles swarm on the fjord's surface;
and that is the only surface there is right now,
the rest is height and depth:
to rise and to sink.
Two pine trunks shoot up
and continue in long, hollow signal-drums.
Cities and the sun gone off.
In the high grass there is thunder.
It's ok to telephone the island that is a mirage.
It's ok to listen to that grey voice.
To thunder, iron ore is honey.
It's ok to live by your own code.