Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.
One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sunthrough brush where a few leaves hang on.They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.Naves swallowed by the cold.
It is still beautiful to hear the heart beatbut often the shadow seems more real than the body.The samurai looks insignificantbeside his armor of black dragon scales.
–Tomas Tranströmerfrom The Half-Finished HeavenRobert Bly translation