Tomas Tranströmer. Haiku

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The power lines stretched

across the kingdom of frost
north of all music.

The white sun's a long-
distance runner against
the blue  mountain of death.

We have to live with
the small-print grasses and
laughter from the cellar.

The sun is low now.
Our shadows are giants.
Soon all will be shadow.

The purple orchids.
Oil tankers are gliding past.
The moon's at the full.

Medieval keep.
Alien city, cold sphinx,
empty arenas.

The leaves whispering:
a wild boar's at the organ.
And the bells pealed out.

The night flows westwards
horizon to horizon
all at the moon's speed.

The presence of God.
In the tunnel of birdsong
a locked seal opens.

Oak trees and the moon.
Silent constellations.
And the cold ocean.

Translated by Robin Fulton

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