Fjords

I am kvinna chasing her man,
while chasing, lost in other men,
lost in dreams as enchanting as Sognefjord,
and in his lips, singing a Winnerbäck.
The man, long imprisoned in her woody eyes
from Beijing to Bergen.

How many fjords left behind?
Viking villages along their curving shores,
hidden in fjells plunging into the Atlantic,
feeding whales, feeding their whispers.
Falling waters, wrathful and relentless,
again and again,
giving life to hundkäx,
a breeze to butterflies,
beats to your heart and then mine:
"We make the perfect sound together."

Behold the reindeer, fleeing into the woods,
Chased by snails and ostriches —a curious threat.

Forests stretch southward,
answering the eternal call,
etched deep on wuthering heights.
Through the longest darkness—Lærdal,
we hold each other’s hands tighter.
Truth the spirit’s past, but the future,
to think of time—
And once more, lips tremble with passion,
whispering the oddity: “What if?”
Tits chirping in colors,
poppies blooming in only redness,
stones breathing the ocean.
Here, we mend one another
until every last fear dissolves.

The sun retreats behind the mountain
our skins burning to retrieve;
The sun ascends into the sky
our bodies chill, ready to revive.

That is what a nomad for —after all.