In a foreign city
with an incomprehensible language
you are walking along unfamiliar streets;
not even the water of the river
which flows under the stone arch of the bridge
you know not the name of
— and there you are, standing
totally alone, in your own shadow
which slowly trickles out onto the asphalt
like a distant melody
from a flute that is out of tune.
a little bird notices you,
meets your gaze
with its pepper-coloured eyes,
before it disappears into the dawn.
Bengt Berg (Sweden 1946)