#norway
Atley:
“only a poet would mistake insomnia for divinity”
————————-
Yes, I have been to the land with the sun does not set.
Yes, I have been to Norway where it was legally permissible
for sleep to be impermissible.
my host was so concerned
by my many, many days of no night,
no sleep, for my eyes never closed
as I wandered (stumbled) throughout Oslo
with no end “in sight”
they
(King Harald V and Queen Sonja (his consort)
put a chocolate and a note
on my pillow, a sleep suggestion:
God Natt
quite flattered I was,
thinking that a man who could not sleep:
was more akin to a god,
who never sleeps, just turns away
and looks elsewhere when it is
convenient
Atley:
“only a poet would mistake insomnia for divinity”
<><>><>,
and they asked why I could not sleep,
in the land of perpetual sunlight,
I, Exclaimed!
Alas!
there was just too much
poetry to write
and yes, I’ve kept that note for years…
signed,
Natta
P.S. In a fit of desperation,
they took me to the Ice Bar in Oslo,
for permanent refrigeration
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 6:14 AM UTC
The first snowfall of December had come quietly to the little village tucked beside the Norwegian fjord, smoothing the roofs and whitening the bare birches so they resembled candle branches. Inside one such cottage, a young girl named Inga lay awake, listening to the wind paw gently at her window as if it wanted to say something. She was seven—old enough to know better than to believe in fairy stories, but young enough to keep listening for magic anyway.
She shifted beneath her wool blanket and stared at the faint moonlight seeping across the floorboards. Everyone else in the house was asleep: her mother after a long day baking brown bread, her father snoring softly by the hearth, and even the dog curled in a warm circle of fur. Only Inga remained awake, half by accident and half because she liked imagining what might be wandering the snowy world outside.
A soft thump came from the kitchen.
Inga froze. It was not the kind of thump a house makes when it settles. No—this was deliberate, as if someone had stepped inside who did not belong there.
Another sound followed: a muffled grunt. And then something scraping.
Inga pushed aside her blanket, slid her bare feet to the cold floor, and tiptoed out of her tiny bedroom. She crept slowly, one hand brushing the wall, until she reached the edge of the kitchen doorway. The moonlight coming through the window revealed a shape—large, shaggy, and utterly wrong for a kitchen.
The creature was hunched over the pots on the table. A long nose poked out from beneath a tangled beard, and his clothes were patched with mismatched scraps of wool. His boots looked as though they had walked through centuries.
Inga’s breath caught.
She knew that nose.
She knew that beard.
She knew the stories.
“Stekkjastaur…?” she whispered.
The creature jolted as though struck by lightning. He spun around, eyes widening to the size of winter apples. “NO—no, no, no,” he stammered, waving his arms frantically. “You did not see me. I’m… a broom. Yes. A broom that fell over.”
“You’re the Sheep-Cote Clod,” Inga said, stepping into the kitchen with that fearless certainty only children possessed. “The first of the Yule Lads.”
“I am a broom,” he insisted, backing up until he hit the stove. “A perfectly normal broom that is definitely not a magical Christmas troll.”
Inga crossed her arms. “Brooms don’t wear boots.”
Stekkjastaur looked down at his boots, cursed under his breath, and tried to stand like a broom. It was as convincing as a goat pretending to be a teacup.
“If you yell,” he whispered, panic creeping up his long face, “everyone will wake up. And then the whole season is ruined. Mother will say I am incompetent again. I’ll be the disgrace of the Yule Lads. Do you know how long it took to get this assignment back?”
Inga considered this. “So don’t give me a reason to yell.”
He blinked. “What do you want?”
“To help,” she said simply.
Stekkjastaur gaped. “Help? With my… sheep bothering?”
She nodded eagerly. “I know where Old Torvald keeps his wool. And the new lambs came early this year. If you want mischief, I know lots.”
He rubbed his beard. “This is highly irregular. Humans aren’t supposed to help. Humans are supposed to scream, run, or faint. Or all three.”
“I won’t do any of that,” she said. “But I will yell if you say no.”
Stekkjastaur slumped. “Fine. But only for tonight. And only because I cannot be caught again. The others would never let me forget it.”
The next night, Inga stayed awake intentionally. She knew the second Yule Lad arrived on December 13th: Giljagaur, the Gully Gawk. She sat by the window with a blanket around her shoulders, watching the moonlight spread over the snow like spilled milk.
A shadow detached itself from the barn and shuffled toward the cottage. Inga slipped down the stairs and waited by the kitchen door.
Giljagaur stepped inside, stooping so his long limbs didn’t knock over the pots hanging above him. He muttered something about skyr and hiding places and then nearly tripped over Stekkjastaur, who was already rifling through the flour barrel.
“You’re late,” Stekkjastaur said.
“And you smell like you bathed in a sheep,” Giljagaur replied. Then he noticed Inga. He froze. “Why is there a child here? Children are dangerous. They leak secrets.”
Stekkjastaur drew himself up. “She has… leverage.”
Giljagaur stared. “Leverage?”
“If I didn’t let her help,” Stekkjastaur said miserably, “she was going to yell.”
Inga smiled at him, sweet but with a spark of mischief.
Giljagaur rubbed his temples. “This is the worst possible night for this. I came to sneak skyr. Sneaking skyr is delicate work. You cannot do it with an audience.”
“I can help,” Inga said.
“No,” he groaned. “This is not how the Yule Lads are meant to operate. This is chaos.”
Stekkjastaur leaned over. “She knows where the good hiding spots are.”
Giljagaur paused. “Does she?”
Inga nodded. “And I know which pots creak. And which stairs don’t squeak. And where Mother keeps the special winter skyr.”
Giljagaur’s eyes lit up. “The special winter skyr…?”
Stekkjastaur whispered, “She’s very useful.”
Giljagaur sighed in defeat. “Fine. But only tonight. And only because winter skyr is very hard to come by. And because if you yell, child, Mother Gryla will come down from the mountains and chew me out.”
Over the next nights, more of the Yule Lads arrived—each one encountering Inga, each one stopping cold when they saw her, and each one hearing the same explanation from Stekkjastaur and Giljagaur.
Stúfur, tiny and bold, declared it was nonsense—until Inga showed him exactly where the frying pans were polished smooth enough to see your reflection.
Þvörusleikir, the Spoon-Licker, gave a long speech about protocol—until Inga pointed out where the wooden spoons lay drying.
Pottaskefill, the Pot-Scraper, accepted her immediately. “Finally,” he said, “someone who leaves food in the bottom of the ***
Askasleikir, the Bowl-Licker, sighed but agreed. Hurðaskellir, the Door-Slammer, loved her enthusiasm. Skyrgámur, the Skyr-Gobber, considered her a genius.
By the time Bjúgnakrækir, the Sausage-Swiper, arrived, the others had already briefed him. “Don’t worry,” Stekkjastaur said. “She’s on our side.”
“I don’t have a side,” Bjúgnakrækir said. “I just have sausages.”
Still, he let her help.
Gluggagægir, the Window-Peeper, nearly fainted when she tapped him on the shoulder. Gáttaþefur, Doorway-Sniffer, said her scent was “small human mixed with pine needles,” which Inga took as a compliment. Ketkrókur, the Meat ****** recruited her immediately. Kertasníkir, Candle-Stealer, said she was an ideal accomplice.
Through all twelve nights, Inga played with mischief—not harmful mischief, but curious and gentle pranks. A rearranged cupboard here, a mysteriously vanished sausage there, boots turned backward, yarn braided into the shape of dragons.
The villagers muttered that the Yule Lads were especially active this year. Things went missing, lids clattered, shadows moved at the edges of lantern-light. No one suspected a small girl was helping orchestrate it.
The Yule Lads, for their part, were astonished. “A human child,” they whispered. “A partner. A little accomplice.”
And Inga adored every second.
But on the last night—when Kertasníkir slipped his candle into his sack and the brothers began their trek back toward the mountains—Inga felt a tightness in her chest she could not explain.
Kertasníkir paused by her door. “You cannot tell anyone,” he said softly.
“I know.”
“Because they will not believe you. And disbelief is a kind of un-magic.”
She nodded, throat tight.
Stekkjastaur patted her awkwardly on the head. “You were… surprisingly competent.”
“That’s the closest thing he has to affection,” Giljagaur muttered.
Inga smiled.
One by one, they trudged into the night, their shapes blending with the snow and shadows, their laughter echoing faintly against the mountains.
When the last of them disappeared, the cottage felt unbearably ordinary.
Inga closed the door gently and whispered to the darkness, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
And she never did—not because she feared they’d get in trouble, but because she knew the truth:
No one would believe that on twelve snowy nights, she had run wild with mischief alongside the Yule Lads themselves.
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 5:48 PM UTC
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d move to Norway.
I’d wake to mountains wrapped in mist,
walk beside fjords that mirrored the sky,
and learn that silence is not an enemy
but a companion.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d not only see the world—
I’d learn it.
I’d taste spices in Morocco,
learn dances in Brazil,
drink red wine in Spain,
walk beneath the cherry blossoms in Japan,
stand in Iceland under skies that catch fire,
trace the ruins of Greece with my fingertips,
watch the sun rise over deserts in Morocco.
I’d wander through India’s colors,
breathe the sharp air of the Andes,
and sit quietly in the forests of Finland
until stillness felt like home.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d dive into the Great Barrier Reef,
swim among colors brighter than anything I’ve written.
I’d climb mountains in Switzerland
and let my lungs burn with clean air.
I’d follow the rivers of Canada,
camp beneath skies so heavy with stars
they would drown out my doubts.
I’d stumble through words in languages not my own
and laugh at the mistakes.
I’d fill my passport with stamps
and my heart with places that felt like home
for a day, a week, or a lifetime.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d tell people how I feel.
I’d say I miss you without shame,
I need you without fear,
I love you without hesitation.
I would trust that they could hold
both the light and the storm of me.
I would risk being known.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d create without fear.
I’d paint without erasing,
write without deleting,
sing without lowering my voice.
I would publish my poems
and trust they might land
in someone else’s quiet night
like a lantern they didn’t know they needed.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I would adopt a cat.
I’d let it curl against me in the evenings,
purring its small, steady rhythm
into the noise of my thoughts.
I’d adopt a dog too,
let its joy drag me outside,
pulling me toward sunlight and weather,
reminding me that life is meant to be walked through.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I’d dance in the rain,
sing off-key in the shower,
fill notebooks without editing,
and dance badly but freely.
I’d stop waiting for the perfect moment,
and instead let imperfect moments
become my life.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I would let myself dream of futures.
Not just days or weeks,
but years.
I’d imagine birthdays not yet celebrated,
friendships not yet found,
a life that stretches forward
instead of folding in.
If I weren’t afraid to live,
I would know what it feels like to be free.
Free from the weight of fear,
free from the urge to vanish,
free to step into the world
without asking permission.
I’d gather freedom piece by piece—
in laughter, in rain, in mountains, in love—
until it was mine to carry.
And maybe—
just maybe—
I’d stop circling the question of leaving,
and start writing a list of places to go,
people to hold,
stories to tell,
reasons to stay.
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
At first light trudging through the Arctic Snow,
Is it for thrill or just a Facebook photo show?
As the Arctic wind buffets our flushed face,
The long-awaited walk soon becomes a shambles of a race.
Hands morph to splintered wood, eyebrows deftly freeze,
And yet the brochure promised we’d do this trek with ease.
Soldier on, embrace the frigid grind,
Pray aloud that inner fortitude to find,
Not a sound outside our laden breath,
Every move made with fractured hapless stealth.
But coupled to the cold a streaming sweat,
A larger wager would I not have surely bet,
That a saunter on the glistening Arctic Tundra
Would at most develop the art of soothing Mantra.
Then a booming voice disturbs this quiet introspection,
As the guide engages in frantic group inspection,
His walkie talkie comes suddenly to life,
Stern commands soon wailing shrill with strife.
Bears ahead with teenage cubs in tow,
Keep down, stay low,
Curb the chatter, pretend you’re but a stone,
Form a line, don’t venture out alone;
Rifle’s cocked, don't turn around,
Polar bears don't run - they bound.
Now move backwards, avoid their steely gaze,
Take full advantage of this soaring Polar haze.
Maybe minutes, but seemingly an age,
As we shuffle blindly stage by stumbling stage;
Our Dunkirk - the waiting rubber boats,
Ecstatic for anything that somehow runs and floats.
Back to the ship, sodden and quite sore,
Not to mention frozen to the epicenter of our core,
We huddle around cups of steaming tea,
Sharing stories of all we had to fear and see.
You may well ask, was this the fateful end,
Did we to natures will forlornly yield and bend?
It's true the thought did rather cross our minds,
Fearful of more unscripted scrapes and woeful binds,
However, a good sleep and liquid strength galore,
Did somewhat mollify that sorry shameful score.
For as dawn broke early the next day,
To a person did we in seeming chorus say:
Off we trudge as more adventure waits,
To experience all that Nature's majesty creates,
Our only thought one of craving more,
And so we went, still frozen to our core.
Jul 26, 2025
Jul 26, 2025 at 10:36 AM UTC
Been looking into bridges
Over water, to go swinging
Down in flames I fall asleep
Dreaming about my breath away
A fjord flowing between ridges
Frem og tilbake water bringing
Me out to sea to fall asleep
Til then I wake up. It's today.
Mar 8, 2025
Mar 8, 2025 at 12:04 PM UTC
There once was a woman from Norway
Who'd hang by her toes in the doorway:
She went to her dude
And his friends in the ****
And requested a fjordian fjour-way.
Feb 26, 2025
Feb 26, 2025 at 8:39 PM UTC
If it's not something others will do,
If their governments will not hold their leaders accountable,
Then we need the Paddys, the Svens, the Pablos to;
You cannot wait for a criminal
To turn themselves in,
For they never shall.
At their level,
They will avoid prosecution
Till they swim in the lakes of hell.
And meanwhile, how many
Will they facilitate in the deaths of?
How many innocents murdered?
How many must be "martyred?"
May 28, 2024
May 28, 2024 at 11:22 AM UTC
~
*Come and stay with me
in Hammerfest
A compact town
a compact love
The harbor and your heart
within walking distance of each other
White night
civil twilight
A disc rather than a point
Where the multiple exposure
of your first day smile
never subsides*
~
Jul 13, 2022
Jul 13, 2022 at 12:55 PM UTC
Stay well beautiful childs
Of this night
Of this night forever
My fragile child of strung silver white hair
And that air echoes forever
My silver child of the endless shores
My angel child sing for me
Of dreams and angel things
Stand strong in the evening wind
Bend as though an angel in prayer
And sing for me of the endless
You know it's times like these my child
Where I could spit in the wind
That I could break the evening waves
That like a light in the dark I'm searching for a way to go on
For I've got a reason but she's a distance away
It's been years of searching
The decades echo on
And I'm still here with my long hair and gnarled skin
But it's amazing what a woman can do
So I search on for you
And I'll make her hair the silver streams
And her body the cradle of the valley
And the rising mountain sides
And her lips the sweetest kiss for you
I'll make her ***** so soft and warm
And her voice of angel's harmony
And I'll scratch on in the darkness
Black with my claws until I find her flaws
Even and smooth and her love here just for you
And if I find her flaws
I don't care it's a wide world
And her smile like the sun
Like the gates in the mountainside
And may her river flow and slake our thirst
And if I find her flaws
I'll smooth them over for you
May her crown shine as though the radiance in the sky
And I shall dance in her fires
And her eyes rejoice for we are her lovers
May her breast heave with joy for we are her ones
And if I find her flaws I'll smooth them over for you
And may her belly be deep and dire with the darkest lust for life
And love for me and you
And may her heart burst with love and stand true
As though the bend of that angel in prayer
And the song that sings on in the open air
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 3:33 AM UTC
Surrounded by scraps of paper
all over the timber floor
with a pair of morning rays
gleaming over her shoulder
she seated herself in her father’s study
and cruised to the shores of Norway.
Erasing word after word
tearing pages apart
her ship sailed
through the endless waters
of the Baltic sea
passing Copenaghen.
Holding onto the deck railings
and a loose-leaf notebook
she survived a storm
and a pirate invasion.
Her pen was her sword
in the shadows of the brightest star.
Leaning on the amber cupboard
that her father kept locked at all times,
she met a male whale and a female whale
or at least she thought so;
a chain of islands and Scandinavian mountains.
But it was time to moor, the brunch was ready.
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 2:03 PM UTC
I’m drawn into,
Scooped up
I’m shattered in thousands,
Glued right up
I’m head over heals,
But just not in you.
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 3:49 PM UTC
Palms, acacia, and eucalyptus trees
Long, white beaches
Red, hot sand
Down under
Far from home
A spark lits up
Like the stars shining
Over the spread-out city
Oak, spruce and pine trees
Long, deep fjords
White, cold snow
Up in the north
Somehow far from home
Cloudy and raining
A glimpse of the moon
The same as you see
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC
LANDSCAPE TOGETHER
Memories become reality, events are lucid
and ongoing as brown haired girl stares thru
her frizzy hair, it’s not fair!
It’s too deep – do I like the girl?
Is your sister weird too?
Are you so weird too?
Maybe you doubt my love for you,
a foreign landscape dwarfs you,
diminishes you, makes you nothing but a girl.
You ask me my view, I reply
you’ll have to make up your own mind.
A million pretty girls have walked this land,
most are dead now. Their beauty heart stopping,
their country wordless, timeless.
We go to triple north deep fjords, midnight sun,
hazy skies of Freya. You invoked such a girl
in our spell on our enemy,
one day I, we’ll go to such shores.
To Viking lands, Leaves Eyes music,
Tristania and Mortiis. No mere girl can encompass
my love for you or a beauty you have yet to see.
Take you to frozen lake where biplanes flew
and fought against **** enemies.
A beauty rather indescribable but from your soul,
see it with me and you’ll understand.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 12:57 PM UTC
Looming over deep dug dale
with wending fjord below,
the Pulpit Rock stands over all
in Norway's chilling snow.
A sunny day it was that time
when I fared with my kin.
Up the Pulpit Rock we marched,
met with glory's din.
Imagine now, a cloudless sky
with sapphire blue abounding;
folk from far and wide had come;
the beauty was astounding.
That ancient Northern land in front,
home to the god of thunder.
Though sweat dripped from our weary brow,
we stood and basked in wonder.
So if you've never hiked that way,
you're in for quite a shock.
You'll find a world beyond your own
upon the Pulpit Rock.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 8:10 AM UTC
NORWAY MUSIC
Sat here in my flat I think of Norway,
of all the places I’ve seen there and the bands –
Gaate, Blood Red Throne, Satyricon, Amulet and more.
To my Norse gothic bands I’ve seen here in England –
Mortiis, Madder Mortem, Leaves Eyes, Octavia and Tristania.
How I love it and can’t get enough of them.
When will Sirenia come gig here?
Norway and your music, I love you very much.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
Past the point of plastered
room spinning, like a wheel
as would rank amateur, a *******
the nausea, that you feel
Imbibed to the limit
arriving at the brink
as example, or exhibit
of alcohol, to stink
Head down, shoulders rolling
praying to the porcelain lords
no way, no how, controlling
as overflowing, dikes, and fjords
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC
Well it seems that one million miles from my home
where the water is clear and the valleys are gold
And the land that is really home to me
is all the way across the sea
I hold in my hand my soul and my fate
I try to use gold when lead would be great
I can tell even though I cannot see
The land that I care for is full of beauty
The old me is gone and I miss his laugh
But he's captive now in a photograph
And the many great things I could have seen here
have vanished with time and gone with the years
Ive looked through the sky and fallen like rain
the place that I landed was never explained
the mobile I was given from a drunken clown
painted my smile just like his cold frown
for how far I've traveled Im in the same place
sometimes I doubt life isn't a race
and even with all the trips round the sun
time can **** pain just as good as a gun
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
It was Dalya's way
of looking at me
that warmed me
to the core,
(some place
outside Oslo),
we shared a cake
and ate with forks,
I was remembering
the night she crept
into my tent,
(the Aussie guy
and gone to the tent
of the Yorkshire lass),
and began to undress
in the small confines
of the tent,
and I lay there
watching and waiting,
(beat old
fashion dating),
her small *******
tight and taut,
her slim figure,
and in the semi dark
I tried to fathom
lower down,
but she lay beside me
and we embraced.
This cake
is to die for,
she said,
forking in
the last morsel.
How about
some more?
Of course,
I said,
trying to recall
what it was I saw.
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
She's spread there,
Dalya, legs
set aside,
in the tent
that we share,
lying there
in dim light,
her soft fruit
on offer,
the two small
melon *******
her dark fig
waiting for
me to push
plough or kiss.
There's music
from speakers
blaring out
in the camp,
voices calling
from other
tents nearby.
I engage
her beauty,
handle fruits
of melons,
open up
the dark fig
(not apple)
enter in,
plough her trench
with fine skill
without sense
of time's clock
or moral scorn,
just us here
making love
in tent's hold
keeping out
dark night's cold.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
I saw Dalya
by the showers
her hair was wet
and she looked
like a drowned rat
her tight jeans
seemed tighter
the white tee shirt
clung to her
bringing out
the best of her
and she was smoking
looking at the grass
what's up?
I said
woman problem
she said
woman problem?
I said
you know the flow
she said
o I see
I said
you want to go
into Oslo
and have a beer
and see the sights
have a meal?
she looked at me
and inhaled deeply
she was silent
for a few minutes
then exhaled the smoke
and said
ok if you like
better than lying
in the tent moodily
gazing the canvas
listening to the camp-site
loudspeakers blasting out
Led Zeppelin or such
good what time?
I said
give me an hour
to sort myself out
and I’ll meet you
by the bar
she said
and remember
no *** tonight
I nodded
and she went off
towards her tent
and I walked into
the shower room
to refresh myself
sad about no ***
but that was it
that's how things go
**** the flow.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
I'm standing at the edge of cliffs that stretch on through Norway.
Looking down I see another me.
Deciding if I've got what it takes to go through this doorway.
I'm at a junction of paths with more than your average split.
I've got endless roads which lead nowhere.
Apprehension in my voice but I can't see where you won't fit.
You're a little special though because I smile like a fool when you're near.
You won't see me with the same eyes.
That's all I'll ever fear.
We stayed up late last night.
Together - you could have left.
Though I'm glad you stayed.
Was it me you stayed for?
Your a natural beauty more than these rocks and views in the Kjerag.
It's more than body, pulse and heart.
Its all of you I've gotta have.
When I thought I'd met them all.
Struggling to find a spark.
I've never met anyone like you.
Now you're all I think of in the dark.
Take my hand and show me love
Out beyond the imaginary.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
The last weeks have been strange
some days felt like spring
while others felt like autumn
there were even days that felt like winter
Have we skipped summer?
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 5:43 AM UTC
I have this theory that butterflies taste like bubblegum.
When I was a kid, my tongue was a permanent shade of bright pink. Shoving as many pieces of BubbleYum into my mouth as I could fit was the epitome of happiness, and when I could fit an entire package at once I knew there was nothing I couldn’t achieve.
And I’m sure that right now if you cut me open my stomach would be a fluorescent pink, because
when I see your face in my mind as I’m sitting in class or
when your name is on my tongue before I fall asleep,
that’s what it tastes like.
Bubblegum.
But please don’t cut me open. My dissection would be too ****** anyway, and far too colorful to detect butterflies…
Because my blood runs red, white, and blue.
When I was younger my mom would always tell me that as I grew older my tastes would change. Of course, she meant that eventually I would grow to like peas, but even though that still hasn’t happened, she was right.
Back then red, white and blue tasted like
hamburgers
and apple pie
and baseball.
But just recently I cut my finger –
and as I brought it to my lips I tasted
lingonberries
and fish and
skiing.
Have you ever wondered why blood tastes like metal? It is the
SWORDS and SHIELDS
that flow through my veins,
passed down from ancestors of millennia past. And every time I am injured it pours out in protest, those ancient warriors urging me to fight against this strange land and this strange culture.
I was born away from home, as were my parents and grandparents before me. And as I feel the shapes of foreign words in my mouth they taste like meeting an old friend. Because I’ve come to realize that my blood never ran red, white and blue.
It runs rødt, hvitt og blått.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC