Then give me an island by the horizon – poems by Karl Lindeborg. 2015, Publishing house, Vattenringar, Vallentuna.
Do not say the ancient forest is cut down
– tell about people guarding the forest,
who lay themselves down in front of the machines.
Do not say the children are affected by cutbacks
– tell about adults who find possibilities.
Do not say the oil spills are killing the guillemots
– tell about the thrush who sings when
the light returns.
Do not say we over-consume
– tell about real needs and
the dreams of young people.
Do not say our welfare is impossible from
a global perspective
– tell about those who fare well.
Do not say what the soldiers did
– tell about the people who made good things
possible despite the war.
Do not say people leave each other
– tell about people
who succeed in making love grow.
Do not say any more
– pull your fingers through my hair,
caress my cheek,
kiss my lips,
Give me stories of love
Perhaps I must practice slowness
when so many shout hurry
to see what is important
in the middle of this chaos, in this danger,
when Earth is desecrated and on fire.
Where people flee and the earth is plundered.
What do I do with the pain and the grief?
Now when the tears are falling
down my cheeks?
I have a deep need to love.
Now I need you, just you,
hold another being by the hand.
Lean close and draw your scent
which is alive, and whisper:
Give me stories of love,
then hold me
when the night comes and
sing lullabies that make me fall asleep
so I later may wake up
with a desire to live,
with a desire to be dedicated.
Love is a choice
and a question of priority.
There is no time now for anything else than to love!
That is how you should reply.
All around is
my wonder about life.
My amazement about all that is beautiful,
just during this stroll:
The people at the café,
he who held her hand
so tenderly across the table,
and her sparkling eyes
so full of light.
Those eyes, that light,
like the buzzing, the laughter,
and carry me onward,I who is simply passing.
The newly sprung crocuses,
the swelling buds of the lilac,
the opening in the clouds,
a sun that is finally warming,
the great tit that is singing
about the desire to be alive.
If I were to speak of God,
which I do not do very often.
I would still say the path to God is the path
through the people and that love that is tested in the ordinary;
at the breakfast table, in the metro, at work,
in the queue to the cashier when we shop for dinner.
I believe the goal of everything lives in
the little stories of love.
The rapture of being alive also resides there,
in these every day events:
the joy over something good
in another person that fills me, lifts me,
in a consideration and a care.
There, in what we think, is the spacing,
in the little gestures.
I believe the little stories weave life together
into the big story and give it weight.
Is it those actions that are the answer
to my long prayer for meaning?
When I see the people
that are there and those who pass by?
Yes, I believe so.
For love is actions
and we become human through humans.
I want to choose love.
I want to leave a smile,
a helping hand.
I want to converse and look into
another person’s eyes.
And now here with you
when I see your face
shining at me,
I want to take my hand
and caress your cheek, slowly,
rest with a finger
by your lips.
giving myself time,
and by that giving another person time.
I choose love
and I receive love.
There, in one of life’s many spacings,
the two of us build the world
with a story of love.