This forest in May. It haunts my whole life:
the invisible moving van. Singing birds.
In silent pools, mosquito larvae's
furiously dancing question marks.
I escape to the same places and same words.
Cold breeze from the sea, the ice-dragon's licking
the back of my neck while the sun glares.
The moving van is burning with cool flames.
- Tomas Tranströmer
translated by Patty Crane