At the next bend the bus broke free of the mountain's cold shadow,
turned its nose to the sun and crept roaring upwards.
We were packed in. The dictator's bust was there too,
wrapped in newspaper. A bottle from mouth to mouth.
Death, the birthmark, was growing on all of us, quicker on some, slower on others.
Up in the mountains the blue sea caught up with the sky.
translated from the Swedish by Robin Fulton
edited by Robert Hass