here

Standard

It Was Here
Rolf Jacobsen
It was here. Right here
beside the brook and the old rosebush.
A late spring this year, the roses are still pale,
almost like your cheek
the first morning beyond death.
But it’s coming,
only the light, only the fragrance, only the pleasure
won’t be coming.

But it was here,
it was an evening with a moon,
the brook trickling,
like now. Take my hand,
put your arm there.
And we’ll set out
together in the summer night,
silently, toward
what isn’t.

Original

Det var her
Det var her. Akkurat her
ved bakken og det gamle nypekjerret.
Sen vår iår, rosene er bleke ennå,
nesten som kinnet ditt
den første morgenen bak døden.
Men det kommer,
bare lyset, bare duften, bare gleden
kommer ikke.

Men det var her
og det var kveld og måne,
bekkesildr
sånn som nå. Ta hånden min,
legg armen der.
Så går vi da
sammen i sommernatten, tause
mot det som
ikke er.

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