Tomas Tranströmer 

I am carried in my shadow
like a violin
in its black case

In the middle of life, death comes
to take your measurements. The visit
is forgotten and life goes on. But the suit
is being sewn on the sly.

Every person is a half-opened door
leading to a room for everyone.

It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.

I wrote so meagerly to you. But what I couldn't write
swelled and swelled like an old-fashioned airship
and drifted away at last through the night sky.

Thank you for this life! Still I miss the alternatives.

Tired of all who come with words, words but no language
I went to the snow-covered island.
The wild does not have words.
The unwritten pages spread themselves out in all directions!
I come across the marks of roe-deer's hooves in the snow.
Language, but no words.