that which abides

   

.

The sea wind sways over the endless oceans -
spreads its wings night and day
rises and sinks again
over the desolate swaying floor of the immortal ocean. 

Now it is nearly morning
or it is nearly evening
and the ocean wind feels in its face - the land wind. 

Clockbuoy toll morning and evening psalms,
the smoke of a coalboat
or the smoke of a tar-burning phoenician ship faces away at the horizons. 

The lonely jellyfish who has no history rocks around with
burning blue feet.
It's nearly evening now or morning.


—Harry Martinson

.

With their round dance the electrons spin
chrysalises of that which abides,
the inmost cocoons
which do not open of their own accord
but are of that which abides.

There it is not a matter of hatching out.

There it is a matter of tending and protecting
the metamorphoses of the inmost
deeper-down swaying,

the innermost playing of women in dance.


—Harry Martinson

.