Poem by the Swedish writer Lennart Sjögren

Pike-head

How sharp your teeth are: Pike-head

though the sun’s fried you to the wall

and though winter’s flayed your skin

and though this is already your third year hanging there.

Others have their Progress

others have their Sergeant.

I have you.

There is nothing in your head

that tends towards the friendly.

Even so I wish to count you

one of my closer friends

and possible to talk the language of muteness to.

You definitely do not belong among the demons

nor among the apocalyptics.

You are what you are

what you are is you.

Nor do I wish to include myself

among animal devotees

just because I keep your company.

I do not worship you, even though you belong to

the circle of consolation.

Your path went directly from the watery depths

to the air that is man’s but not yours.

Nor did you seek for mercy

not in my eyes nor those of others.

And what you said in silence when hauled up

I do not know.

Eyes you no longer have, scarcely skin

but your teeth

that slowly eat their way through the sun’s heat

you still bare at me.