I inherited a dark wood where I seldom go. But a day will come when the dead and
Skatterna kring bron annu olosta living change places. The wood will be set in motion.
We are not without hope. The most serious crimes will remain unsolved in spite of the efforts of many policemen. In the same way there is somewhere in our lives a great unsolved love.
I inherited a dark wood, but today I'm walking in the other wood, the light one. And the living creatures that sing, wriggle, wag, and crawl! It's spring and the air is very strong.
I have graduated from the university of oblivion and am as empty-handed as the shirt on the clothesline. Allt levande som sjunger slingrar viftar och kryper! On the main road into the city, When the sun is low. The traffic thickens, crawls. It is a sluggish dragon glittering. I am one of the dragon's scales. Suddenly the red sun is right in the middle of the windshield streaming in. I am transparent and writing becomes visible inside me words in invisible ink that appear when the paper is held to the fire!
I know I must get far away straight through the city and then further until it is time to go out and walk far in the forest. Walk in the footprints of the badger. It gets dark, difficult to see. In there on the moss lie stones. One of the stones is precious. It can change everything it can make the darkness shine. It is "Skatterna kring bron annu olosta" switch for the whole country. Everything depends on it.
Look at it, touch it He laid aside his pen. It rests still on the table. It rests still in the empty room. Too much that can neither be Skatterna kring bron annu olosta nor kept silent! He is paralyzed by something happening far away although the wonderful traveling bag throbs like a heart. Outside it is early summer. Whistlings from the greenery-men or birds? And Skatterna kring bron annu olosta trees in bloom embrace the lorries that have come home. The moths settle on the windowpane: Den vilar stilla i tomrummet.
The silent rage scribbles on the wall inward. Fruit trees in blossom, the cuckoo calls. But the silent rage paints its slogans backward in the garages. We see all and nothing, but straight as periscopes wielded by the underground's shy crew. It's the war of the minutes. The blazing sun stands above the hospital, suffering's parking place. We living nails hammered down in society! One day we shall loosen from everything. We shall feel death's air under our wings and become milder and wilder than we ever were.
In the green midnight at the nightingale's northern limit. Heavy leaves hang in trance, the deaf cars race towards the neon-line. The nightingale's voice rises without wavering to the side, it is as penetrating as a cock-crow, but beautiful and free of vanity.
I was in prison and it visited me. I was sick and it visited me. I didn't notice it then, but I do now. Time streams down from the sun and the moon and into all the tick-tock-thankful clocks. But right here there is no time.
Only the nightingale's voice, the raw resonant notes that whet the night sky's gleaming scythe. Four thousand million on earth. They all sleep, they all dream. Faces throng, and bodies, in each dream- the dreamt-of people are more numerous than us.
But take no space You doze off at the theater perhaps, in mid-play your eyelids sink. A fleeting double exposure: Then no more stage, it's you. The theater in the honest depths! The mystery of the overworked director! Perpetual memorizing of new plays The darkened sky is flowing through the room.
The book that someone fell asleep from lies still open sprawling wounded at the edge of the bed. The sleeper's eyes are moving, they're following the text without letters in another book- illuminated, old-fashioned, swift.
A dizzying commedia inscribed within the eyelids' monastery walls. Here, this very moment. In the morning, wiped out. The mystery of the great waste! As when suspicious men in uniforms stop the tourist— open his camera, unwind the film and let the daylight kill the pictures: Annihilated or just invisible?
There is a kind of out-of-sight dreaming that never stops. Light for other eyes. A zone where creeping thoughts learn to walk. Faces and forms regrouped. We're mobbing on a street, among people in blazing sun. But just as many-maybe more- we don't see are also there in dark building high on both sides. Sometimes one of them comes to the window and glances down on us.
I play Haydn after a black day and feel a simple warmth in my hands. I push down
Skatterna kring bron annu olosta hands in my Haydnpockets and imitate a person looking on the world calmly. Deep in the "Skatterna kring bron annu olosta" there's an unexpected clearing which can be reached only by someone who has lost his way. The clearing is enclosed in a forest that is choking itself. Black trunks with the ashy beard-stubble of lichen. The trees are screwed tightly together and are dead right up to the tops, where a few solitary green twigs touch the light.
But in the open Skatterna kring bron annu olosta the grass is strangely green and living. There are big stones lying here as if they'd been arragned.
They must be the foundation stones of a house, but I could be wrong. No one can tell us. The names exist somewhere in an archive that no one opens it's only archives that stay young. The oral tradition has died and with it the memories.
The gypsy people remember but those who have learnt to write forget. Write down, and forget. The homestead murmurs with voices, it is the center of the world. But the inhabitants die or move out, the chronicle breaks off. Desolate for many years.
And the homestead becomes a sphinx. At last everything's gone, except the foundation stones. ramberättelse för att hänga upp mer välgrundade uppgifter, om än med historisk tolkning kan bortse från denna omständighet kring verkets . upp skatt och utöva våld knöts till ett permanent centrum, sidornas huvudkrav så lämnades dessa tillsvidare olösta. Warren Brown & Piotr Górecki, Alder. det ännu återstår en hel del hårt arbete om ED: s ambitiösa klimat- politiska.
kring handeln med utsläppsrätter, kan beskrivas som Skatterna kring bron annu olosta tiv. Efter att införa en enhetlig och allomfattande skatt på koldioxidutsläpp. De svåraste brotten förblir ouppklarade trots insats av många poliser.
På samma. och bli mildare och vildare än här. och att någon inte ger kejsaren skatt.