The living and the dead
The ice-ferns on the
window pane
The crystals that
grow in caustic soda
‘blindly’ and in
recognisable shapes.
Strindberg saw a
draft of life
and the longing of
dead things
to become living.
The cuddly animal that the child carries with it
everywhere
and warms in its bed
until it acquires a name
and the whole family
talks about it
as one does about a
real person.
The tin soldiers with
their stiff unhappy faces.
The Moorish trumpeter
who sits
high up in the
wonderful organ in Oliva
and at a particular
moment raises his trumpet
and blows to three
points of the compass. He is Moorish.
All of that which
imitates life fails
and does not deceive
us.
But hovering around
these things: crystals,
toys, trumpeters
is an expression of sorrow,
of melancholy.
And that is no imitation.
We sense it at once.
And are reminded of
ourselves.
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