This is more of a reaction to a week than it is a poem.
In this wind-torn land
Where the worms are as skinny and long as the fire-burnt soil would allow them to be
And the people are like day-blind mice
Crawling out from their shelters at night
To match the colours of rain and lava and the colour you get when you close your eyes
Travelling through the country
You can see stunning creatures of beauty
Standing, almost free, short yet strong, their hair blowing in the wind
These are the horses
And the lamb makes a noise
You swear can only come from a human
Back in the city
The grey with splashes of
red yellow blue
And the sea
For every corner you turn you eventually reach the sea
There is no lighthouse here
There are no raging waves
Just shrubs and grass that lean to one side, stubborn with roots refusing to be blown away
There are few insects to speak of
For not even the parking ticket police are corrupt
Speak English, you think
But they think in a language that sounds half Germanic, half Arabic, all mangled with words you must chew out to get your point across
There are many tourists
Who will stop by for a day or two
And those who do not understand
Wear bright clothing
Thinking the sun will appear at any moment
Arrogant, proud, peaceful, smart
How can a country of 320,000 people - barely enough to be called a city - have done all this?
Much of the country is uninhabitable
Just like the patriot's heart
Faraway places can be reached with some effort, but no one will ever be able to call it home
Sleep tight now, sleep tight
Import your cornflakes and export your hot water
We'll meet somewhere in between and make té
og kaffi
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