By Tomas Tranströmer
The building is closed. The sun crowds in through the windows
and warms up the surface of desks
that are strong enough to take the load of human fate.
We are outside, today, on the long wide slope.
Many wear dark clothes. You can stand in the sun with your eyes shut
and feel yourself being slowly blown forward.
I come down to the water too seldom. But here I am now,
among large stones with peaceful backs.
Stones that slowly migrated backward up out of the waves.
Translated by Robin Fulton