Along the Fjords

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

How many fjords left behind?
Viking villages on their curvy shores,
Hidden in sublime fjells descending into the Atlantic,
feeding whales, feeding their whispers.
Falling waters, wrathfully, again and again,
Giving life to hundkäx,
breeze to butterflies,
beats to your heart and then mine.
"We make the perfect sound together."
Behold the reindeers fleeing into the woods,
Threatened by snails and ostriches.
Forests grow down to the South,
to the eternal call,
drawn inherently on wuthering heights.
While passing through the longest darkness —Lærdal,
Holding each other's hands tighter,
Truth the spirit's past, but the future,
To think of time—
Once more, the lips are passionate with oddity: "What if?"
Tits chirping in colours,
Poppies blooming in only redness,
Stones breathing ocean:
This is where we heal each other
till the last fear fades away.
The sun hiding behind the mountain,
Our skins burning to retrieve,
The sun rising to the sky,
Our bodies chilling to resume.

That is what a nomad for —after all.