Tomas Tranströmer

Here I am again by this colorless sky,
littered with feathery, friable, by bread alone
souls. A bit of spitting. Mouse-vole
She greets me with a whistle. Half a century.

Periwinkle and boulder, overgrown with dense bristles
moss, not budged. And the smell of slime
faded, a simple strip, the segment Homer,
who have nowhere to go because of their size.

First noticed, probably, trees,
whose immobility is also a consequence of mistrust
the birds with their flickering and reflects the severity of
look at the many-armed - if not one-legged.

In the local impassive, flat, otherworldly light
the difference between fish, running on the network,
and weeping rain statue alkonavtov
visible only accustomed to the idea of ​​dividing by two.

And diseases dvoetochye, than the quotient obtained by dividing
vote at bessroche, devil glaciation,
I fall to the native, rusty, granite mass
gray straw pupil, who returned back home.


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