From The Kenyon Review, New Series, Summer 1991, Vol. XIII, No.3
Translated from Swedish by Robin Fulton
Spring lies desolate.
The velvet-dark ditch
crawls by my side
without reflections.
The only thing that shines
is yellow flowers.
I am carried in my shadow
like a violin
in its black box.
The only thing I want to say
glitters out of reach
like the silver
in a pawnbroker’s.