Hans Rustad
I don’t remember the word I wished to say. The blind swallow returns to the hall of shadow, on shorn wings, with the translucent ones to play. The song of night is sung without memory, though. No birds. No blossoms on the dried flowers. The manes of night’s horses are translucent. An empty boat drifts […]
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Pluss-artikler blir åpnet 48 timer etter publisering. Artikler som er eldre enn to år er forbeholdt abonnenter.
Nina Hjerpset-Østlie
I don’t remember the word I wished to say. The blind swallow returns to the hall of shadow, on shorn wings, with the translucent ones to play. The song of night is sung without memory, though. No birds. No blossoms on the dried flowers. The manes of night’s horses are translucent. An empty boat drifts […]
Logg inn for å lese videre (abonnenter).
Pluss-artikler blir åpnet 48 timer etter publisering. Artikler som er eldre enn to år er forbeholdt abonnenter.
