from Letter in April: VII Poem by Inger Christensen

TRANSLATED BY SUSANNA NIED

On the street
with our money
clutched
in our hands,
buying bread
and scattering breadcrumbs
for the bluish
doves.
Paying
to see
the fire eater,
the cigarette swallower
and the dead vagabond
who breathes.
Greeting
the palm tree
that sighs
at night.
Saying a few words
to the staring
stone figure
above the gate.
Laughing
and rushing
in
as if chased.
In the cool kitchen
we prepare
and arrange our food.
We make it as elegant
as we can.
Bouquet on the table
and all.
And we speak
in our own
clear
language.
Who knows
if things don't
know in themselves
that we're called
something else.