on the forest trail

Gustaf Munch-Petersen: Towards Jerusalem

burgundy flower

under the Lord’s sky

and mine his warrior-foot,

remove your love-

tongue into

the snow forest – the mile-mouth,

at whose edge, I have to watch,

guard and

listen –, until the Lord’s day lets

hymn lilies in

all conifers quiet the

only:

each soul its paradise-

hen in the babbling pot of

loveliness –

burgundy flower quench

the emerald tongue of my

happiness –

remember, what I am

made of –

on His finger I found

for me a

blue helmet and the

ice-white dagger –|

in the blue of the helmet my

destiny –

the cramp-spark of the edge

my only soul –

blind I

walk through the forest

under the helmet of invincibility

with the Lord’s ice-dagger

in front of me to create

all the world with –

I am yet too

tiny to dare

pluck you and yet

maintain my blindness

untouched –

 

over you, my slave-stalked

queen-mature

burgundy flower,

with my own

name, my own beloved

hands, my own loveliness-

wet face, all

like fire-stones, joy-eggs on

your narrow knee –,

over you

I now lay this

hill of snow, that you

not for the sake of a squirrel must

be remarked satan –