The eel and the well
In old
Scania there was a custom:
Young eels
from the sea were let down
into the
black depths of the wells.
These eels
then spent their entire lives
imprisoned
in the darkness of the deep wells.
They keep
the water crystal-clear and clean.
When on
occasions the well-eel comes up,
white,
frighteningly large, caught in the pail,
blind and
coiling in and out
of its
body’s enigmas, unaware,
everyone
hurries to submerge it again.
I often
feel myself as being
not only in
the well-eel’s stead
but well
and eel at the same time.
Imprisoned
in myself, but this self
already
something else. I exist there.
And wash it
clean with my twisting,
miry,
white-bellied presence in the darkness.
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