Excerpts from
Bees Die Sleeping
By Morten Søndergaard
I know, and I do not know,
Orpheus turned around,
and I apparently am none the wiser,
I went for the straight, direct path, but then turned around
and followed another, the only one passable,
I drew three maps of time,
one blue, one yellow, one grey, on a one-to-one scale,
a series
of homeless mathematical formulae
in a labyrinthine desert.
But other sounds ran through me, emerging into sand-coloured light,
clear as the water melon's colour repeated in the sunset
and muddled as the rain's reading of the mountains.
Translated by John Irons
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