(Flight of cranes over Skåne, April morning.
Villanella)
The light tracks of a bird are hard to find again.
The number of wild cranes is also very few.
Soon shall the withered grass burn till no straws remain.
This morning was a joyful woman’s reign
whose voice in lust’s short instant rush rose pure and true:
The light tracks of a bird are hard to find again.
All birds are in some secret goddess’s domain,
who taught them flight and unrest; fleeing, staying too.
Soon shall the withered grass burn till no straws remain.
They now change places at the front, the forward dame
by her male consort, and slide off towards the blue.
The light tracks of a bird are hard to find again.
Unfathomable moment! You cannot retain
your form, nor can you slide away anew.
Soon shall the withered grass burn till no straws remain.
And this white blind-born morning would force me retain
the guilt that was my death, which I in secret had to rue.
The light tracks of a bird are hard to find again.
Soon shall the withered grass burn till no straws remain.
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