Poem About Death

Inger Christensen



i can write nothing
the paper is empty as yesterday
it seems so introverted
whitish and still

the same whitish colour
as snow when it gets old
and the frost-crust cracks
but nothing trickles out


last night i dreamt
i was dead and came running
with my dog
into the realm of the dead

there was nothing to be seen
only stones and a few bushes
a landscape the travellers
have often spoken of

as mentioned i was dead
but so tired that i soon
fell asleep on a rock
and dreamt i died once more

i would rather not die
here in the darkness of this realm
but in my own home
where i was not dead