When somebody dies
his surroundings remain:
The distant mountains
the houses in the block
and the Sunday road which
passes over a wooden bridge
just before leaving the town.
And the spring sunshine
which in early afternoon
reaches a shelf with books
and magazines which doubtlessly
once were new.
It's not the least bit strange.
Even so, I've often
wondered about it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Den er en dårlig oversættelse. This is a bad translation - literally true but unpoetic