Poem by the Swedish writer Lars Forssell (1928-2007)

You tell me that poetry’s dead

You tell me that poetry’s dead

or at the very least dying

You seem to forget, well-fed friend,

that it lives just like you

next door to death

half a flight down

half a creaking flight down

there in the dark

The bricklayer sings

The carpenter sings

The woman cashier at the self-service sings

Ministers and opposition

and you and I and the grave-digger

All of us sing for our lives

All of us open-mouthed sing for our lives

till him there half a flight down

knocks with his stick on the ceiling!