You’ve left the big storms
behind you now.
You didn’t ask then
why you were born,
where you came from, where you were going to,
you were just there in the storm,
in the fire.
But it’s possible to live
in the everyday as well,
in the grey quiet day,
set potatoes, rake leaves,
carry brushwood.
There’s so much to think about here in the world,
one life is not enough for it all.
After work you can fry bacon
and read Chinese poems.
Old Laertes cut briars,
dug round his fig trees,
and let the heroes fight on at Troy.

Translation by Robin Fulton

Dei store stormane
har du attum deg.
Dí¥ spurde du ikkje
kvi du var til,
kvar du kom ifrí¥ eller kvar du gjekk,
du berre var i stormen,
var i elden.
Men det gjeng an í¥ leva
i kvardagen òg,
den grí¥ stille dagen,
setja potetor, raka lauv
og bera ris,
det er so mangt í¥ tenkja pí¥ her i verdi,
eit manneliv strekk ikkje til.
Etter strævet kan du steikja flesk
og lesa kinesiske vers.
Gamle Laertes skar klunger
og grov um fikentrei,
og let heltane slí¥st ved Troja.