Henrik Nordbrandt: 'You cut off a rose'

You cut off a rose

You cut off a rose while I was asleep

and placed in the glass on my bedside table

on top of a farewell letter.

I threw the rose down into a rowing boat

and let it drift with the current

until it disappeared beneath the weeping willows

at a point where the river turned.

The boat took the rose.

The current took the boat.

The river took the bridge

where the women strolled in the evening

when the  sun coloured the river red.

The bridge took you.

The boat was a dirty green

old, full of water, half-rotten

and bore the name ‘Amalie II’.

And so it is that I now live

alone, in a pink room, in a blue landscape

and long just as much

for that which is beyond the misty mountains

and that which hides itself from itself

inside me

between the words of your letter.

To remain is to know.

To travel is pain.

I do not want the former.

I am no longer equal to the latter.