No. 6


Carl Forsberg  


Like an over wintered yuppie
Everything at last has come to an end.
Thousands of meters closer to heaven
But still not in the throne room of the gods
The mountain air peels the clothes of my being
With melting water and glacier smoke.
Thrown out of the heat of the lowlands,
Alone, like in a second birth
The body seems strangely ready
Stretched out in its stubborn wiriness
The psyche a pleasant light luggage —
Silver in the crystal of a snowflake
That instead of breaking, hovers.
Hunza awakens with white flowers
And gardens hanging like stairways,
The peaks too steep for the snow to stick,
Fresh enough to come crashing down —
The spring explosive at the source of Indus
Where continents gore each other
With their horns high above the clouds.
In the most distant point of the loop
The body finds a moment’s rest
Before one riot-like will tumble
Down to cities, sprawl and commerce —
And one hesitates like a monk
On the threshold of the unknown,
Weighing the existence’s pro et contra;
Why let everything start over
Climbing the human pyramids
Caught by the earthbound desires —
Experiences put away like a bag
In the newly entered hotel room
Where the transistor crackles with war
And transactions, a distant agenda.
But something drives you on,
Restlessness and the eyes’ hunger
That makes me a stranger here:
Coal is drawn around the children’s eyes
To keep the evil spirits out —
But I just float like a smoke
That nothing, nothing, can hold.



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