Poem by the Norwegian writer Rolf Jacobsen

The silence afterwards

Try to be done now

with the provocations and sales statistics,

the Sunday breakfasts and incinerators,

the military parades, the architecture competitions

and the triple rows of traffic lights.

Get through it and be done

with the party preparations and marketing analyses

for it’s too late,

it’s far too late,

be done with it and come home

to the silence afterwards

that meets you like a hot spurt of blood against your forehead

and like the thunder on the way

and the chimes of mighty bells

that make your eardrums quiver

for words are no more,

there are no more words,

from now on everything will speak

with the voices of stones and trees.

-

The silence that lives in the grass

on the underside of each blade

and in the blue intervals between the stones.

The silence

that follows after the shots and the bird-song.

The silence

that lays a blanket over the one who is dead

and that waits on the stairs until everyone is gone.

The silence

that nestles like a fledgling between your hands,

your only friend.