Excerpts from
Spring, Journal of Modern Danish Literature, nr. 5
By Annemette Kure Andersen
I would ask. I would ask: do you know the length
of the days. Did you listen long enough? I would
ask. Were you carried towards the light? Were you carried towards the
light. Towards the light, the beauty and the truth. And did you listen
long enough. And did you see far enough? Which of us can know it.
I would ask. I would ask: would you lend me your gaze.
Would you lend me your gaze, if you could. Would you. I would
ask. I would ask: do you know the length of the days. Do you know
the length of the days. And would you lend me your gaze, if you
could. We enter a pact you and I. We enter a
pact. You and I. And go side by side. We go side by side. Like this.
You carry the time. And I give you my words. Like this. A song
rises in volume. Like this.
Sea. Wave. Wind. Rivers flow slowly now. Sea. Wave.
Wind. Bears the light of nights. Cuts snow to silence. Burns
rain to sun. Like this. Sun. Summer. Song. The sand sharpens your
eyes. Cuts snow to silence. Like this. Did you see the days become
longer. Did you see the sea heave. And did you see swans take flight.
Sea. Wave. Wind. The sand sharpens your eyes. Like this.
I would ask: do you know the length of the days. Did you listen
long enough? Did you see far enough? I would ask. Were you carried
towards the light? Were you carried towards the light. Towards the
light, the beauty and the truth. Did you listen long enough? Did you
see far enough? And did you hear a song rise in volume. Like this.
Did peach blossom drift in the wind. Did your footsteps lead you to
the sea. Did a white sun dazzle your gaze. Did your veins burst. From
longing. Was your skin gashed. By longing. Were your hands bruised. By
longing. Were your eyes splintered. By longing. Did you look for a
place. A place to be. And did you listen long enough. And did you see
far enough. Which of us can know it.
We enter a pact. You and I. Like this. You carry the time. I
give you my words. I give you all my words. I give you
the last words. Like this.
Only what we don't know. And only what we are not. Only this.
And nothing else can we say.
From Spring, Journal of Modern Danish Literature, nr. 5 1993
Translated by David McDuff
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