Graat Veir
Den vaade Taage hænger dorsk over Mark og By,
Det gider ikke regne engang fra sorten Sky;
Selv Gaardens Ænder ligge saa tause hver og een,
Med Hovedet bag Vingen, og ligne Kampesteen.
Ja Bedstemo’er i Stolen smaanikker, sover ind;
Den smukke Datterdatter, med Haanden under Kind,
Har gabet fire Gange, jeg veed hvad det spaaer,
See, over Brystet falder det lange, gule Haar.
Jeg selv sidder søvnig med Benene paa tvers,
Jeg gider ikke læse i mine egne Vers!
Grey skies
Dank fog-banks hang inertly o’er countryside and town,
From clouds of black the rain can’t be bothered to fall down;
The farmyard’s ducks just lie there and utter not a sound,
With heads tucked under wings look like large stones on the ground;
Yes, grandma in her chair nods her head, and falls asleep;
Her nearby lovely grandchild, her hand against her cheek,
Has yawned no less than four times, I know what that implies,
Look, long blond tresses hide now her slowly closely eyes.
I sit cross-legged half dozing – and what perhaps is worse,
I even can’t be bothered to read my lines of verse!
No comments:
Post a Comment