Det gick en gammal odalman
och sjöng på åkerjorden.
Han bar en frökorg i sin hand
och strödde mellan orden
för livets början och livets slut
sin nya fröskörd ut.
Han gick från soluppgång till soluppgång.
Det var den sista dagens morgon.
Jag stod som harens unge, när han kom.
Hur ångestfull jag var inför hans vackra sång!
Då tog han mig och satte mig i korgen
och när jag somnat, började han gå.
Döden tänkte jag mig så.
Bo Setterlind
Stripped from motion I am not in the position to progress. I am not entitled to any position: naked under a mountain of sheets, is he dead? Is he at all? no one knows, not even my wasting father. How does this interest you? How does this interest the perfectly dead, also perfectly surviving stain on someone else's lucid glasswork? This is a pause of the art, a text out of form, out of the messy form I like to abide by. I have noticed that, I have, among other things that could incriminate. No, that's theory. Incriminating others cannot interest the sores in my own mouth, the sores in my palms, the stealth bruises that emerge and disappear behind the collar of the strictly buttoned shirt, poor girl would laugh and show me how I've done better on her, I've done better by you, poor boy, you have been stolen before, I couldn't love you twice even if that fleeting life of mine was more than the motionless mudwater, it's always night in the puddles, and there I lay, hating nights, face-down, and choke on salty earth as tidal plain worms ask themselves the same questions: is he dead? Is he at all? and the slowly receding mud responds: no, he is not. No, he is not
The weight of all that concrete reminds the pain of the suffocating heart. The height of all that concrete reminds the height that I was born beneath. Does the neck of a hanged man, a hanged woman, does that neck look better with the rope or without? The ornament that hides sure makes me shudder, poor girl could not, yet she shouted loosen the belt, poor boy I would never, I would never share my death with you, I would never keep my death from the W A T T E N. Have you felt the desire your homeland bears for you? No, you were elsewhere born and elsewhere raised. Blood must return, a blessing to know whereto.
T H E L A N D I S S E P A R A T I O N
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