Close to the opened mouth grow the leaves in dried bunches. Large darkly blushing camphor leaves. Dried for you in the already dead. Carefully selected motifs. Opiates with virgin eyes. Peeled away little by little. Until only they in your inner flow out. You cannot open their calyxes. But that which is inside the buds flows out and forms miniature buds. The small murk-green pelvis down there. In the depths of the ugly mountains. Where your dead stone-heart juts out above the opened bay. Like a desolate point with the red heart following after it.


Summer is strange. Pale frog-leaves are lit up. By naked lightning. White child-limbs that open up and coil around the Good God’s throat. Snake-ferns sleep by a forest path. Stars glimmer in a virgin brush. Black larkspurs that want to dry and penetrate your dead camphor cabinet. The little capsule in your evil heart. The forest should be the cruel star Or the stars in my virgin hair. Black waterlily water. With deep and desolate mud bottoms. Where the cold unfolds like a father harbor. A small female eider drowns in your murky reeds. Or in the murky limbs of your Male-limbs. What I forsake to your gaze.


White-flower and flower. In love’s garden there is a silver garden. A cool heart-thread. Which boldly spreads out in its flesh. The way the white worm moves in the flower head. And above this garden the heavens are always painted. The strong fields of the strong color. Close to the dead bowl. Where heavy pearl fruits open up and run down across the canals of the garden. The large foreign garnet drops. They lay entwined in each other. The way the comely hands darkly twine around the stalk of the beautiful flower. I am the pure Rose the Lord is sending Thee.


The big valley is a vast mother-of-pearl mirror. There walks the large dead swan in her dead shroud. And there walks the mother-of-pearl children. Or the fragile foundling clumps. That grow out of the virgin mother’s throat. They led the swan into a forest and placed beautiful white stones of mother-of-pearl on her back. Go now and eat that which you have taken from the swans. Then one ran up and cut a branch from the tree and grabbed a burning branch and stuck it into her throat. And scrubbed her both up top and down below. Until the swan’s flesh fell off in beautiful heavy clumps. For some time the swan lay in the bushes and slept. And black merchants came riding on black mother-of-pearl horses. Then they took the swan and carried her away.

                                                              Translated by Johannes Göransson.