nomads

Gustaf Munch-Petersen: The Lowest Country

like the feet of newborn  children

your eyes are during longing –

go –!

go –!

along the strangely speaking rivers,

which give birth to the forests

and fill them with answers –

o, the forests,

cowering the rivers

like listening melancholy snakes –,

and drag the sky down over themselves

with deaf immovable arms –

go –!

perhaps you will find there

a giant woman

with delightfully singing feet

or white eyes –

or

mountains of sleeping men

with red burning senses

between them as bonfires –

or

terror-stricken children

with faces of burnt clay –,

and hands clutching small spotted stones – |

 

or you find

the fat god,

whose tears pound flood-happiness

on the hard leaves of the swamp-plant –,

whose small eyes smile,

while the tears drum like despairing teeth

faster and faster –

 

go –!

always you’ll find something –

(not the cure - )

do you not see, that your illness

is greater than all others –

o, many you are –,

you, who bear the contagion –

go –,

and spread your infinite restlessness over the earth,

always you’ll find something –