In some great forest lies a clearing
lost in northern wilderness,
where I sit, an old blind man,
tired and worn out, weak and helpless.
Here I was left by my tribe
to satisfy death’s thirstyness.

It must be dark by now – I feel it
by the coolness of the air,
and silently the snow is falling
on my furs and my grey hair.

Soon there will be no more wood
to fuel the fire warming me.
The cold will numb my hands and feet
and from there on it will slowly
creep up my arms and my legs
until it leaves a frozen body.

Fire is mankind’s best friend
and before I lost my sight,
I often spent the night watching
the flames dancing – shining bright.
Licking the wood, climbing and falling
shedding a warm, golden light,
melting away the gloomy dark
changing colours from red to white.

It seems as if all sounds have died.
Only the wind stayed here with me.
Like a quiet voice from beyond
it calls me to eternity.
With a cold breath and sharp teeth
it bites into the meager trees,
although they stand grouped up to forests
they shiver in the cold breeze.

Just as the winter follows summer,
as the night succeeds the day,
just as leaves cling to trees until
in autumn they fall and decay,
I now, after years of travel
have reached the end of my way.

I remember a winter day
when I was out hunting for deer.
I just was looking for a trail
as suddenly a moose appears.

At first I thought its coming at me
but then it turned and charged by,
pounding on through the underwood,
leaving the thick snow flying high,
keeping up a pace so enormous
that it almost seemed to fly.

And after it a pack of wolves,
hungry, bloodlusting and vicious,
chasing it further on and on,
their sharp white fangs shining malicious.
Finally, the wolves draw up.
In the battle some meet with death.
But soon, lying on the red snow
the great moose draws its final breath.

And then I remember a girl,
with her friends she played hide and seek.
She grows more beautiful and womanly
with every passing week.
Then she meets a handsome hunter,
lives through joy and agony,
and after children and old age
she’s left alone to die like me.

I am awoken from my daydreams
by a fierce growl from behind.
Should I try to defend myself,
a tired old man, weak and blind?

Again I remember the moose,
and as I let myself drop back
the wolves begin to draw up close
until they finally – attack!

____________________

»O what a thing is age! Death without death’s quiet.«
Walter Savage Landor

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