A poem from 'A Time in Xanadu' by the Swedish poet Lars Gustafsson

HOW THE WINTERS ONCE WERE

That cold green streak

that was morning

had nothing in common

with us.

And the proud plumes of chimney smoke

rose straight up.

To some god who liked

such vertical movements.

And the scrunching underfoot!

Oh that indescribable scrunching:

no one could approach unheard

that was for sure.

And the suspicion that life

perhaps really was meaningless

and not just in Schopenhauer

and the other daring old guys.

But here too

under the sky’s white plumes of smoke.