Exile

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.

But suddenly

a little bird notices you,

meets your gaze

with its pepper-coloured eyes,

before it disappears into the dawn.

Bengt Berg (Sweden 1946)