THE OWLS | THE SORROW GONDOLA BY TOMAS TRANSTROMER A Page from the Nightbook By Tomas Tranströmer One night in May I stepped ashore through a cool moonlight where the grass and flowers were gray but smelled green. I drifted the slope in the colorblind night while white stones signaled to the moon. In a period a few minutes long and fifty-eight years wide. And behind me beyond the lead-shimmering water lay the other shore and those who ruled. People with a future instead of faces.
THE OWLS | THE SORROW GONDOLA BY TOMAS TRANSTROMER A Page from the Nightbook By Tomas Tranströmer One night in May I stepped ashore through a cool moonlight where the grass and flowers were gray but smelled green. I drifted the slope in the colorblind night while white stones signaled to the moon. In a period a few minutes long and fifty-eight years wide. And behind me beyond the lead-shimmering water lay the other shore and those who ruled. People with a future instead of faces.
