Wild geese are gathering on the field soon the whole flock will rise, flying up over the woods, out across the water. An ocean rolls within me wide open. I am too slow for quick changes, too quick for things to go so slowly that life becomes futureless. Dreams start even before one learns to walk. From the other side of the Atlantic I can see better what Scandinavia is – the black duckling, the white swan, Ibsen, Strindberg, Kierkegaard, gravity, melancholy, irony, the wind settling round the trees, no other embrace, the grey-white light of winter days, loneliness enough for all. In a Chinese street where I try to distil meaning out of the words’ acoustics I understand the dependence on my Danish language the aorta that runs underground in my body no matter how aimlessly I travel around, buoyed up by the light. I move forward, the same sky seen from different angles, the same Earth, the blood’s cadence sets the pace. Every detour I make goes by way of myself alone.
translated from Danish by David McDuff