Wednesday 2 December 2020

Lars Gustafsson: Ur 'Sonetter' (1977): 'Det kommer sent. Det hade långt att gå'




It’s late in coming. It had far to go.

There is no name for it but it’s called grief.

A clenched fist is no more than a frail sheaf

of brittle fingerbones – it’s hard to know


one’s weakness properly. And very few

can view their weakness as a strong safe lair.

One stands on some huge Gustav Adolf square

and sees oneself forsaken. It’s hard too


to cross a square like that. A hand that lies

open’s nearly always empty. And a cage

where no bird’s ever lived can easily


convey confusion. By what right do we

disdain a freedom that by nature, stage

by stage, would loosen cautiously all ties?

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