i can't translate
the words from our pages

they were born out of swedish syllabics

formed by
the dialectic way
you formed your lips
around j's
so different from me

the shifting distance
in our pauses
silently inviting the other one
to pick up

the rytm
in our morning talks
melodies from your tongue  
seconds before  
you break into a smile

our memoirs
are coloured by the
raw cold winter
sprung from northern skies  

and they just won't
render
into something else
despite my aching need
to write you out