Swedish Poetry 1
When life passes away. Each heavily laden body. D
etaches itself from the actual body. And steps in to the other. One doesn’t know where it begins. Maybe it redistributes itself all the time on the same surface. Sidewise without temperature. If surfaces even exist. Probably it doesn’t save anything. Does not exist in itself. Where one is. Soothes no suffering. Does not even trace the emotion. Does it even exist in depths? As they are? Even porously? Like the sides in the shadow From Vad hjälper det en människa om hon häller rent vatten över sig i alla sina dagar (How does it help a human to pour pure water over herself throughout her life?), 2009 Translated by Pamela Robertson-Pearce 47 SWEDISH POETRY