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20 July 2008 @ 01:08 am
Stars are again like a teary ballad, and at nights
dogs tune their cloven violins.
I do not let sorrow come,
I do not let it near.
A thousand feet of snow over my heart.
I mumble a lot to myself, in the street
I sing aloud.
Sometimes I see myself in passing, with a hat, perfect food
for winds, with some thought or other aslant.
I talk about death, when I mean life. I walk with my papers
in a mess, I don't own a single theory, only a swearing dog.
When I ask for liquor, I'm offered ice-cream,
I may be a Spaniard, with my hairline
low like this, indeed:
I may not be from these parts.
I sweat, trying to talk, once and a while
I tremble.
Almost more than for my death, I mourn for my birth.
And all I ask for
is a thousand feet of snow over my heart.

Sirkka Turkka
(Translation by Kirsti Simonsuuri)
milieu: at home
somerledsomerled on July 20th, 2008 12:50 pm (UTC)
I bet dogs would be really good at tuning violins, if only they could be made to think it was important, and they compensated for the lack of opposable thumb.