Marsh grasses sway
lean to east and west
and whisper.
The wind
laves their fingers.
The midges sing,
dancing through the air,
shiny, frisky.

Between the cities
where people throng on the pavements and see what the
neighbors are wearing today and housewives wash up
in hot water and replace the dishes in their cupboards
after each meal,
and where we can buy toothpaste and collars and
gramophone records in interesting shops,
are the wildernesses

where marsh grasses sway,
lean from east to west
and whisper,
curtsy blithely to the wind,
bleach themselves in the sun.
The midges hum.

--Fifty years and the houses have new occupants,
the trams have new signs and new
leather on the seats.
--A hundred years and the cars are stopped in long
rows, side by side they stand in eternal
caravans, pile up in great heaps,
lie with their wheels in the air like dead insects.
--A thousand years and the iron girder is a red
stripe in the sand.

Marsh grasses sway
lean to east and west
and whisper.
The wind laves their fingers.
The midges sing,
dancing around in the air,
shiny, frisky.

--Rolf Jacobsen, 1935
translated from the Norwegian
by Judith Jesch
published with permission of the translator