Gustaf Munch-Petersen: The Lowest Country

listen –!

hear the wounded man

sway slowly

slowly and vaguely

with a large palm-tree

he sways

the palm stretches bending

the palm arises

the palm sways

longer thinner lightning


shrinking thickening


slowly in a pleasing distant sound

over a rattling lake of black hearts

small waves of flat shining hearts

quickly rolling ebonite-waves

tripping ringing

without a trace disappearing

low surfs –

the palm sways

to the lament of frail hands

casts silver-shadow

of flickering distant trumpet-dance

over the lake –

sways –

flees –