Page 102 - Demo

The farmer in his everyday lifeknows somethingthat we don%u2019t know. He has a secret with the plow%u2019s furrowand the winter frost and the dull shade under trees, a secret that he keeps because it%u2019s just as well. The tree drinks its muteness from the earth, extends its enormous root down there like an elephant trunkand draws up silenceand lifts it to the stars and the windso they can taste it too. The dead in their graves don%u2019t talk much. Maybe silence is what means something. Maybe that%u2019s why the poem%u2019s mouthhas the softest of voices, almost like the grassor the song under a stone. Who can say. Bugs and worms rush out. The ants flare up like a rose.Bonden g%u00e5r i hverdagenog vet noesom ikke vi vet. Han har en hemmelighet sammen med plogfurenog vinterfrosten og den dumpe skyggen under tr%u00e6rsom han holder inne medfor det kan v%u00e6re det samme. Treet drikker sin stumhet av jorden, det setter sin sv%u00e6re rot som en snabel dypt dernedog drikker taushet derog l%u00f8fter den opp til stjernene og til vindenat de skal smake alle. De d%u00f8de i gravene taler ikke meget. Kanskje det er tausheten som betyr noe. Kanskje det er derfor diktets munnhar den laveste av all jordens stemmer, nesten som gresseteller som sangen under en sten. Hva skal vi tro. Kribledyret piler bort. Mauren blusser opp som en rose.