With his work, as with a glove, a man feels the universe.
At noon he rests a while, and lays the gloves aside on a shelf.
There they suddenly start growing, grow huge
and make the whole house dark from inside.
The darkened house is out in the April winds.
“Amnesty,” the grass whispers, “amnesty.”
A boy runs along with an invisible string that goes right up into the sky.
There his wild dream of the future flies like a kite, bigger than his town.
Farther to the north, you see from a hill the blue matting of fire trees
on which the shadows of the clouds
do not move.
No, they are moving.
…………………………………………………………
Tomas Transtromer (born 1931)
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