Efter Stormen
Mønster i Sandet af Havfruens skællede Hale.
Dérhenne maa saa de første Blodspor være.
De gaar som paa Glasskaar. Kan ikke tale.
Og vores Luft er for dem som Tjære.
Deres Øjne er vandblaa. Ørerne kan de lukke.
Det lange Haar er sort og grønt, det lugter salt.
Deres Bryster er smaa og glatte og meget smukke.
Her ser det ud, som om hun gled og faldt.
Du ser i Sandet, hvor Fingrene er fine,
og Knæene staar støbt som fuldendte Ovaler.
Find hende: Hun tager dine Hænder mellem sine.
Hun rødmer aldrig. Gør stum, hvad du befaler.
Brug hende dristigt. Dejlig fra Haar til Hæl.
Over Jer hviler en smudsig Maage paa Vingen.
Og hvad hun attraar til Gengæld er blot din Sjæl
Og du har ingen.
After the storm
The sand shows patterns of the mermaid’s scaly tail.
There then is where the first blood traces are.
They walk as if on shards of glass. Their voices fail.
And what is air to us to them is tar.
Their eyes are liquid blue. Their ears can tightly fold.
Their waist-long hair is black and green, with salty smell.
Their breasts are small and smooth, most lovely to behold.
It looks as if it was just here she slipped and fell.
The sand reveals her fingers’ every bone,
as perfect ovals lie the casts of both her knees.
Find her: She’ll take your hands between her own.
She never blushes. Dumbly follows your decrees.
Boldly use her. Delectable from top to toe.
Above you rests in flight a gull that’s filthy dun.
And what she craves from you is just your soul.
And you have none.
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