Thursday, 9. September 2004
From 'March ’79' - Tomas Transtromer
Tired of all who come with words, words but no language
I went to the snow-covered island.
The wild does not have words.
The unwritten pages spread themselves out in all directions!
I come across the marks of roe-deer’s hooves in the snow.
Language but no words.
Big Book Of Poetry
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