a divina desordem: tarjei vesaas.
We are woodwind players, enchanted by things we cannot resist.
Everything is naked and new. A rock stands in running water. It sticks out, motionless, like a lifted axe, parting the moments for us, so that we can get there quickly enough. We are expected. A witless small bird plunges towards the rock and lies in the heather, then flutters up and does not appear again.
We are expected.
We are among the white stems of the birch trees before we realize it. One moment we were on our way, now we are here. We are expected. The brief time left to us will be spent here.
A bird passes overhead. A birch-clothed promontory runs out into the lake. Our brief time.

Tarjei Vesaas, The Ice Palace, Peter Owen Modern Classics, 2005, p 161.


posted by Eduardo Brito at 1:11 da manhã | Permalink |