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
One must, by now, tip the poetry hat to the likes of Robert Hass, who I don't know from Adam, but who I have read complete over the last 40 years. . .never mind his diligent work as editor, teacher, translator, and with an overall terrific track record in the service of poetry, the poem, the poet. Cheers!