Tree

We started going out in autumn

and even though my dog died
I was in love

 

two months later
was born a boy with head lice

Rimbaud, un poète maudit
with his haunting example

submerging himself in darkness

in order to see more clearly

 

you couldn’t handle the smell of absinthe
and when a shotgun appeared in our bedroom

it was time to put aside his influence

 

I changed into an artisan of complacency

all desires I held inside
and what I exhaled was pure compassion

I judged attachment as a spring lake’s ice

if love were a leaf and not a tree

one could swallow it whole
but instead I told you:
“The leaf of love does not exist” 

Muorra

Moai giidáneimme čakčat

ja vaikke beana dat gal jámii

ledjen ráhkásnuvvan

 

guokte mánu go golihedje
máilbmái buškkihii dihkk’ oaivvat juŋká

Rimbaud, un poète maudit
ja su gopmohalli geaidnu
lei sevnnjodahttit iežas
vai oainnášii visot

 

don it veagalge gierdan ábsintta hája

ja go oađđenlanjas gávdnui bissu

bođii áigi bidjat su eret

 

rivden duhtavašvuođa duojárin
buot baluid váibmosan njammen
ja áibmui šohkon árkkálmastinvuođa

dubmejin gierisvuođa giđđajieŋa alde

 

jos ráhkesvuohta livččii lasta iige muorra

dan sáhtášii njielastit ollisin
muhto láhttestin dušše:
“Ráhkesvuođa lasta ii gávdno”

ja don dat vašuhat Rimbaud’a