Of Course It Hurts
Of course it hurts when buds burst.
Otherwise why would spring hesitate?
Why would all our fervent longing
be bound in the frozen bitter haze?
The bud was the casing all winter.
What is this new thing, which consumes and bursts?
Of course it hurts when buds burst,
pain for that which grows
and for that which envelops.
Of course it is hard when drops fall.
Trembling with fear they hang heavily,
clammer on the branch, swell and slide -
the weight pulls them down, how they cling.
Hard to be uncertain, afraid and divided,
hard to feel the deep pulling and calling,
yet sit there and just quiver -
hard to want to stay
and to want to fall.
Then, at the point of agony and when all is beyond help,
the tree's buds burst as if in jubilation,
then, when fear no longer exists,
the branch's drops tumble in a shimmer,
forgetting that they were afraid of the new,
forgetting that they were fearful of the journey -
feeling for a second their greatest security,
resting in the trust
that creates the world.
Harald Sverdrup's poem tentatively translated:
Children are a people, and they live in a strange land. This land is a rain and a puddle.
Over the puddle the boys’ boats go sometimes, and they glide so nicely even without a keel.
There walks a girl who collects rocks. She has a million for herself.
The King of Trees sits quietly among the branches of the Tree King’s throne.
There walks a boy who laughs at the snow.
There walks a girl who made an island out of fifteen pillows.
There walks a boy - and everything he touches turns into ice cream.
All of them are children, and they belong to the mysterious people.
Children are a people, and they live in a strange land. This land is a meadow and an attic.
There a boy may find a new Samarkand, and ride away on a swinging gate.
There walks a girl who sings about fir cones. She owns two herself.
There by a wooden fence stands a boy who scribbles that the world is blue.
There walks a boy who turned into an Indian.
There, there walks the King of Shades around town, he is stalking thieves.
There - a girl found a funny grimace that she is trying on.
All of them are children, and they belong to the mysterious people.
Children are a people and they live in a strange land. This land is a back yard and a shed.
There, the dangerous train ambush happens sometimes, on beautiful evenings when the moon is yellow.
There walks a boy who is guessing on cars; he always wins.
The songs of birds in their many variations are magical jokes.
There, a worthless thing turns into a treasure.
There, beds turn into boats one night and go off to the moon.
There are kingdoms that none of us can take away from them.
All of them are children, and they belong to the mysterious people.
