For a moment I thought he had holes in his wings.
Inger Christensen's crown sonnet from her "The valley of the butterflies"
Translated from Danish into English by John Irons
"XV
Skywards they swirl, the planet’s butterflies
in Brajchino valley’s searing midday air,
up from the bitter cavern’s sombre dyes
that mountain scrub hides with a scent so rare.
As admiral and camberwell and blue,
as peacock butterflies they flutter by
and make believe the universe’s fool
a life that does not simply choose to die.
Who is it that transforms this meeting stead
with hint of peace of mind and honeyed lies
and summer visions of the vanished dead?
My ear responds to this with its deaf ringing:
It is no less than death with its own eyes
looking at you from butterflies when winging."
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