Gustaf Munch-Petersen: The Lowest Country

dying the little one lay –

a thin cry –

minutes like millions of detestable flies –

burning anxiety hammers against small temples –

cynically slow you went

through the night –

you painted fear-crosses –,

hour after hour –

small eyes – small fingers

surrendered bit by bit

to the flies –

you crocheted black ribbons

and tied them slowly

around every little joy –

torn pieces of screams you swiped out

with a tired expression –

dying lay the little one

still in the morning –

then your patience wore out –,

shyly smiling you said: come –

and together you went out

on a new meadow –

under the grass

the earth writhed in big-bellied laughter –

and the sun came

like a glossy-eyed cow

and licked the back of the little one’s neck –