at evelyn’s bakery in norberg
In Norberg, early
on a May morning
the scent of lime
blossom and elderflower
from old trees
close to old houses can
float
weightlessly on the scent of new-baked bread
There is iron
beneath us, much iron
immense bodies of
ore,
an incalculable
number of sleeping grains
that silently
twist the compass out of joint
The world goes
out as soon as night is over
And undergoes
silent transformations
But someone has
to be there at sunrise
To knead soft
dough between strong hands.
And the wave of
heat that surges out
when the oven
door is opened
is the youngest
sibling of the white exhalation
of long-since
mouldered blast-furnace eruptions
The world
undergoes sombre transformations
Iron can become
swords or sledgehammers
Many swords Many
sledgehammers
Many dead Much
bread
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