If you live in a duck pond,
and are completely at ease,
you soon think that the brook is an ocean.
Then the water lily becomes a primeval forest,
and you yourself a human relationship,
and for every question you yourself have an answer,
And everything beyond the horizon, feels scary and wrong ,
like an unnatural, impossible game.
Then you close your eyes and hiss with complacency,
and stupidity soon becomes your religion.
Then you sit in Stockholm, in Lund and Gothenburg,
three fly shits on the edge of the world,
and judge and reject, in restaurants and in the kitchen,
and determines what has and lacks value.
There you know more about China,
Peru and the USA than those who live there every day know.
You don't have to ask them themselves how it is,
and you don't have to either read or travel.
It's as if in Cairo you every meatballs with onions
that taste as if mother had made them.
Or like in cafes in Paris, paying herring,
and if they hesitate point your temple at them.
Like holding the Baj before a crazy pyramid,
and a schottis before Beethoven's mysticism.
Then you become what the German is r in Northern Italy,
and then you get all the love you deserve.
Yes, in circles är beautiful the är människan as är ugly.
as Wennerberg says when he is in earshot.
Should one blame the system or perhaps oneself?
Who is to blame? mmer what do you think you should do?
But the one who only closes his eyes is not really blind,
even if it would be damn convenient.
And about folkhemsprä the speed gives a constant trouble
so you might go and look in the mirror.
From my cliff in Liguria I see the farmers who walk
swing their scythes down' in the valley.
They work with the body, under the white globe of the Sun,
for the old people, the women and the children.
In my cabin I am everything, out in the world nothing.
What value do I want to place on myself?
Do I ever want to understand the earth we run from
I just make sure to be a little humble!