Days are shorter
Nights are dark
Time sits precisely
In the writers remainder park
Leave the forest to permeate
Make the tea
Make the toast
Make time tick on
For me, and for my Norwegian host
Cold water, clear water, archipelago’s
Roads are passable
Lakes are free from tide
Ingrained with work
The journeys (where we all for sure) reside
In translation I argue against the rhyme
Words are transferable
Thoughts are less tangible
Emotions, dark secrets
Find themselves lost; sounds seem less edible
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