i walked abroad one
summer’s day to hear all kinds
of transistorra
dios blaring at full volume from
rugård landevej and my own
too for that matter from here
inside the green labyrinth well mixed up
stirred and thoroughly
blended with songs of birds that
through my heart could sear
songs of birds that through
my heart could sear at three ’o
clock in the morning
(before the devil’s up and a
bout and even the holy spirit’s
still asleep drunk on roses on him
self and on the damp scent of grain)
i listened in ex
celsis and from far below
in the deep green vales
in the deep green vales
beneath the heart and the a
bysses of the mind
grundtvig’s hymns blossom and set
their hips and their itching powder and their
living word along with their
ultimative demands made on the flesh
and on the soul that
attempts to conceal itself
midst the nightingales
midst the nightingales
that are not singing any
more (since midsummer
has long since passed like a secret
fire at the back of the head) among
the trees in the garden of udby
rectory i count the beats of
the cuckoo’s heart and
of my own and all those small
birds that speak so clear
and the other birds
that speak so clear and that sing
and cheep and chirp and
chatter and kick up a racket
from morning to evening and cackle
and crow i drown out completely with my
very own variation
on the old danish
folk song: ‘i walked abroad one
summer’s day to hear’
and the other birds
that speak so clear i ask the
following question:
will you lend me your wings when the time
comes in gratitude for all the
grain and white bread and sunflower
seed will you – you small jackinaboxes
so my soul can fly
away up to paradise
midst the nightingales?
midst the nightingales
and the fires caused by pyro
maniacs in lang
eskov amidst summer light
ning and caravans we extravagant
ly frittered away our lives on what
is referred to as nothing: long
walks that took us out
to the sea and excursions
in the deep green vales
in the deep green vales
beyond any form of sense
and of utili
tarianism midst mozart’s
horn concertos and forgetmenots
behind trinitatis’ tremen
dous mirrors we wasted our time on
what is referred to
as nothing: songs of birds that
through my heart could sear
i walked abroad one
summer’s day to hear a fair
ytale that i know
extremely well but that even so
is new every time it is told
(almost like evening church bells peal
ing or like the folk high school song book)
by the tall trees in
the forest and all those small
birds that speak so clear
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