Fjord

I am kvinna,
lost in a dream in Sognefjord,
singing a Winnerbäck:
"Jag skulle unna mig att drömma."

Forests stretch southward,
to the eternal call,
etched deep on wuthering heights.

How many fjords left behind?
Viking villages along the shores,
fjells plunging into the Atlantic,
feeding whales, feeding their whispers.
Falling waters, giving life to hundkäx,
a breeze to butterflies,
beats to your heart, then mine.

Tits flash like stolen rainbows,
poppies bleed only red,
stones inhale the ocean’s salt.
Here, fear dissolves like mist.

Lærdal's endless dark,
Truth is the spirit’s ghost, but the future —
ah, the future is to question time itself!
Lips tremble anew:
What if?

"Måste du ha nånting kvar?"