A mysterious disappearance
It is written: In March 1858 a man,
resident of Gnarp, which is a remote hamlet,
bought bullets, cord and powder for a smallish sum,
one noted down that thus can still be read.
Probably he wanted to shoot courting black grouse.
The trail now disappears among the pines,
here we lose sight of him,
not temporarily but for good,
and every hope that he exists there,
like a dark and threadbare figure,
still on his way across bogs, through cowberry sprigs,
and that we one morning could meet him, is futile.
You must understand me, consider this:
We will never get to know who he was,
and if our face just for a moment,
late one evening when tiredness loosens the bindings,
and lets us see that we are no one or are everyone,
were to absorb his features into its own, his eyes,
we would not notice it or be confused.
After having gone off in search of birds,
he is for all days and all nights to come quite lost.
from: The Balloonists (1962)
To see the original poem, go to here