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Apr. 25th, 2012 02:09 pm
acchikocchi: (stock // winter)
[personal profile] acchikocchi
sorry i've been slipping!


Black Postcards

I
The calendar is full but the future is blank.
The wires hum the folk-tune of some forgotten land.
Snow-fall on the lead-still sea. Shadows
scrabble on the pier.

II
In the middle of life, death comes
to take your measurements. The visit
is forgotten and life goes on. But the suit
is being sewn on the sly.

-- Tomas Tranströmer

Date: 2012-04-26 05:43 pm (UTC)

Date: 2012-04-26 05:49 pm (UTC)
ext_20958: (Default)
From: [identity profile] acchikocchi.livejournal.com
Right?

I had this discussion with someone about music once, but it's true for poetry too -- cold-climate writing really gets me on a visceral level. Even when it's not explicitly about the landscape, there's... something there you can feel. Hard to describe.

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