MOTHER AND FATHER IN THE SNOW DRIFTS
When I wake up at dead of night
and think of where my children are, I see,
as in a glimpse
mother and father in the snow drifts
on a byroad to a farm in Romsdal
a long time ago.
Mother trudging through snow to mid-calf. The road
snow-bound, with father as always
at the rear, his hat askew and pressed down hard, so
wind and blowing snow won’t bear him off.
All I recall is face and snow that
swept across, and the wind that filled
the road with snow drifts. They carried out
their tasks in Molde and came home, then Christmas. All
of this is gone.
But after many years and at dead of night
I wake up and think of where my children are. Now I
myself am a man in a coat
a man in the snow drifts, a man at evenfall
scarcely lit up for just a moment one
winter evening in a new millennium.
But at night time I become a witch
and wonder where my children are
and sing a quiet lullaby
they cannot hear.
For I set out from mother and father
leaving them there in the snow drifts.
My children have departed to their winter nights,
just as I once set out.
I ‘ll not go out into the world
to find myself a sunlit paradise.
I do not long for childhood years
nor for an heaven here on earth.
All that I wish for is for snow to fall
so that our children then can see us,
our dear ones then can see us,
as in a glimpse, while we move towards darkness
in blowing snow and wind, in snow and wind.
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