Snow Whirls Around the Courtyard's Roses, The

Scandinavian Review, Summer 2003 by Forsstrom, Tua

The snow whirls around the courtyard's roses.

Didn't bring my boots and scarf, leafing

through books, don't know what to do with all this light!

You wouldn't approve of the colors.

It's too striking, Andrei Arsenjevich, too

much, too much of everything!

You exchanged the wings for an aerial balloon, a clumsy

creation cobbled together from rope and rags, I remember so well.

Before, I had a lot and didn't remember. Difficult

to stick to the subject. Difficult to stick to the subject.

Hope to return. Hope to return to the principle

of wings. The fact remains: the freeze preserved

the rose garden last night. "The zone is a zone, the zone is life,

and a person can either be ruined or survive when

she makes her way through this life. Whether she makes it or

not depends on her sense of self-esteem -" A hare

almost hopped into the entrance hall here at the Foundation,

mottled against the snow; it's October in the hare's calendar.

You seem to be a moody sort of person

and it's possible that none of this is of interest to you.

On the other hand, you yourself complain fairly often.

I'm writing because you are dead and because I woke up

last spring in my streetside hotel room in Benidorm to that wonderful

high twittering. One shouldn't constantly say one is sorry, one should

not constantly give thanks, one should definitely give thanks. Lake

Malaren like lead down there. The rest is white and red.