Nyt on yö. Minä kuljen yksin tyhjiä katuja. En tiedä, mihin olen menossa, hyvä kun tiedän mistä olen tulossa, ja ruumiissani soi tuhat kaunista ja voimakasta sävelmää, minun koko menneisyyteni, ja silmissäni loistavat tuhannen ihmisen silmät, silmien takana tuntemattomuus, tätä naista ei tunne kukaan, se ei ole vielä täysin syntynytkään, ei kukaan tiedä mitä se on tulevaisuudessa.
- Mirka Lattunen
El a întins spre mine o frunză ca o mână cu degete. Eu am întins spre el o mână ca o frunză cu dinţi. El a întins spre mine o ramură ca un braţ. Eu am întins spre el braţul ca o ramură. El schi-a înclinat spre mine trunchiul ca un umăr. Eu mi-am înclinat spre el umărul ca un trunchi noduros. Auzeam cum se încetineşte sângele meu suind ca seva. Eu am trecut prin el. El a trecut prin mine. Eu am rămas un pom singur. El un om singur
- Nichita Stănescu
Kunst ist nicht ein Spiegel, den man der Wirklichkeit vorhält, sondern ein Hammer, mit dem man sie gestaltet.
- Karl Marx
The Hermit’s Song
A hiding tuft, a green-barked yew tree Is my roof, While nearby a great oak tree keeps me Tempest-proof.
I can pick my fruit from an apple Like an Inn, Or can fill my fist where hazels Shut me in.
A clear well beside me offers Best of drink, And there glows a bed of cresses Near its brink.
Pigs and Goats, the friendliest neighbours, Nestle near, Wild swine come, or broods of badgers, Grazing deer.
All the gentry of the county Come to call! And the foxes come behind them, Best of all.
To what meals the woods invite me All about! There are water, herbs and cresses, Salmon, trout.
A clutch of eggs, sweet mast and honey Are my meat, Heathberries and Whortleberries For a sweet.
All that one could ask for comfort Round me grows, There are hips and haws and strawberries, Nuts and sloes.
And when summer spreads its mantle What a sight! Marjoram and leeks and pignuts, Juicy, bright.
Dainty redbreasts briskly forage Every bush Round and round my hut there flutter Shallow, thrush.
Bees and beetles, music-makers, Croon and strum; Geese pass over, duck in autumn, Dark streams hum.
Angry wren, officious linnet And black-cap, All industrious, and the woodpecker’s Sturdy tap.
From the sea the gulls and herons Flutter in, While in upland heather rises The grey hen.
In the year’s most brilliant weather Heifers low Through green fields, not driven nor beaten, Tranquil, slow.
In wreathed boughs the wind is whispering, Skies are blue, Swans call, river water falling Is calling too.
Of course, right now it looks horrible. But I guess that once someone
has moved in and lived there for a few decades, it will start to look a
little bit more personal and friendly ... (But it doesn't change
the fact that it for some strange reason was built in the exact middle
of the yard, so that there is only a thin strip of yard on each side of
the house, while they *could* have done the same as with all the
neighbouring houses, and built this house on the edge of the yard, next
to the street, so that it would have had a bigger, continuous yard
behind it ... grmbl ...)
The remains of the gate will also be torn down soon.
But not all is sad: these pigeons were quite funny:
First, they were flying in circles above this house, and then they all sat down on the roof.
Judging by the amount of pigeon shit, it must be a regular hanging out
place for this gang. It must be nice to live in this house and hear
their cooing from the roof ...