Work is such a mischievous dog
which never does as it’s told no matter how loud you shout at it
It won’t stay, it won’t fetch, and you end up herding the flock yourself.
And love, well it’s a half wild cat
you feed occasionally.
It makes off with your ball of wool and tears your knitting in pieces
so you chase the creature away.

Nobody except an idiot or a saint
would expect the two of them to lie down together.

And we are all undone by the undone
all the words we never said
the journeys we never made
the food that was prepared but never eaten.
But no doubt, come the final reckoning
the undone too is done with
In its perfect state of undone-ness, it is as over and bloody well done with

As the few days we live/as the wandering path we travelled
As the broken thread.

Varg
translated into English by the author