BEGYNDELSE

En krydderhave i sol,
               en sommer, bagest i haven
og min farmor mellem kartofler,
gulerødder og pastinakker,
hvor gammel er du farmor,
               din hud er rynket,
ikke glat og spændstig som kartoflerne i jorden,
               eller lyden af kartoflerne
når du smider dem ned i spanden
og skrubber dem rene med en kost på gårdspladsen, 
for vandet løber ud af spanden og ned i gruset,
ned mellem de gule og hvide sten,
               som jeg kommer i munden,
kølige sten imod tændernes inderside,
jeg kender deres form og smag,
og kartoflerne i den store aluminiumsgryde
               med dild og salt og smør,
og vi kommer varme og forpustede ind
og vi sætter os på bænken,
               vi var i færd med noget,
noget vi ikke vidste hvad var,
noget der bragte os steder hen
               der ikke var til at forudset,
noget der traf os med enorm styrke,
               en indlysende hemmelighed der udslettede os,
fordi vi et øjeblik var uopmærksomme,
               din hud er gul og voksagtig, farmor,
de synger dig ud og lukker låget
med små forsølvede skruer,
               du skal ned i jorden
til kartoflerne.

© Morten Søndergaard
From: Bier dør sovende
Copenhagen: Borgens Forlag, 1998
Audio production: Literaturwerkstatt Berlin 2008

BEGINING

A herbarium in the sun,
               a summer, at the bottom of the garden
and my grandma among the potatoes,
carrots and parsnips,
how old are you, grandma,
               you skin is wrinkled,
not smooth and pliant like the potatoes in the soil,
               or the sound of the potatoes
when you throw them into the bucket
and scrub them clean with a broom in the yard,
the water runs out of the bucket into the gravel,
down between the yellow and white stones
               which I put in my mouth,
cool stones against the inside of my teeth,
I know their shape and taste,
and the potatoes in the big aluminium saucepan
               with dill and salt and butter,
and we come in hot and out of breath,
we sit down on the bench,
               we were busy doing something,
something we didn’t know what it was,
something that took us places
that could not be seen in advance,
something that struck us with enormous force,
               an obvious secret that annihilated us
because our minds wandered for a moment,
               your skin is yellow and waxy, grandma,
they’re singing for you and closing the lid
with small silver-plated screws,
you’re to go down into the soil
               down to the potatoes.

Translation: John Irons