Vendela

Vendela is outside,
picking flowers for me
-in the rain.
Hyacinths and roses, the brightest colours she knows:
Morning Glories, Small Bindweed,
Wet grass under her naked feet.

Everywhere I see pieces of you;
You're in the fallen leaves and in that old withered tree
of which the twigs will never blossom again,
and everything around here makes me miss you.

Vendela is outside,
singing songs for me
-in the woods.
Long songs and sad songs,
the fines melodies
she knows.
Cobwebs wet of misty air
Touch her face and moisten her hair.

Everywhere I see pieces of you.
You're in the fallen leaves and in that old withered tree
of which the twigs will never blossom again,
and everything around here makes me miss you.

The trees seem alive as I dance with their shadow
which are made by the light from the fire behind me.
Sad voices speak when the winds catch the leaves,
and they whisper to me that I've lost you.

Such a moony soul
with such a wistful eye
Could I ever reach her?
So deep was the well
that I left.
May the sylvan glade fill her?