A wanderer wanders here Poem by Inger Elisabeth Hansen

A wanderer wanders here, but why should she accept that it is here
she wanders, she would rather have stayed at home, nevertheless it is she
who wanders here, it is here she must walk, bound to this path along the frozen lake,
the ice slushy, soaked bluish like forgotten milk in a bowl, in the landscape
that lifts this lake which reflects nothing, in the landscape which holds
this bowl with soured milk in its hands and lifts it towards the sky



towards the sky, towards the sky which hurls clouds towards south, towards south south-east
the clouds rush like ribbons, like rags and bandages unwound from a body, a body
in south south-east, so why should she have taken the time it takes to find a name for
this lake, the time it takes to find a map or the old man who has sawn
a hole in the ice and jigged three four fish which don't have names either, he might have sat there
for the time it takes for a lake to get a name and get rid of it again, he might have sat there
for the time it takes for a fish to get a name only to get rid of it again