EN DAG I DECEMBER
Nu drejer en brændende klode
om solens blåtindrende kugle,
og Vinternatsmørket sænker sig tæt
med stjerner som tårer et væsen har grædt,
hvis sorg ingen stjerner kan skjule.
Og han der står udenfor kloden
og drejer den rundt med sin finger –
hans ansigt er koldt som den tindrende sne,
og det er et ansigt de aldrig skal se,
som tvivlen gav stækkede vinger.
Men vi der er småbitte kloder
af øm og begrænset viden
skal lukke os trygt om en jordisk tro,
mens den, der higer mod stjernernes ro
går vild mellem rummet og tiden.
A DAY IN DECEMBER
A planet that’s burning now orbits
the sun’s with its sphere’s blue-tinged glitter,
And winter night’s darkness downwards has crept
with stars just like tears that a creature has wept,
whose sorrow no stars can keep hidden.
And he who stands outside the planet
and spins it around with his finger –
his face is as cold as the glittering snow
and this is a face that they never shall know,
and whose doubt-pinioned wings make him linger.
But we who are just tiny planets
of knowledge that’s touchy and harnessed
seek safety enclosed behind earthly faith’s bars
while anyone seeking the peace of the stars
gets lost between space and time’s vastness.
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