Alcaic Poem by Tomas Tranströmer
Alcaic
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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/16/2026 3:16:42 PM # rel_20260813T193622Z_3aad590
