Prose Poem

While the grass grows, loneliness dies. Look: They are dancing, all the old friends with their doubtful prognoses, each with his skeleton, each with his inimitably crumpled-up longing. See this molehill, and come closer to the sky. While the grass grows, the pictures tear themselves free of the paper. See through this mirror with anything other than your own eyes. While the landscape listens, the grass grows.

From: Den Fynske Forårsudstilling 2009. Catalogue. Prose Poems by Laus Strandby Nielsen.

Poem translated from Danish by David McDuff

Mens græsset gror, dør ensomheden. Se: De danser, alle de gamle venner med deres tvivlsomme prognoser, hver med sit skelet, hver med sin uefterligneligt sammenkrøllede længsel. Se dette muldvarpeskud, og kom tættere på himlen. Mens græsset gror, river billederne sig løs fra papiret. Se med alt andet end dine egne øjne igennem dette spejl. Mens landskabet lytter, gror græsset.