by Inger Christensen

Translated by Susanna Nied

I

Up they soar, the planet's butterflies,

pigments1 from the warm body of the earth,

cinnabar, ochre, phosphor yellow, gold

a swarm2 of basic elements aloft.

Is this flickering3 of wings only a shoal

of light particles, a quirk4 of perception?

Is it the dreamed summer hour of my childhood

shattered as by lightning lost in time?

No, this is the angel of light, who can paint

himself as dark mnemosyne Apollo,

as copper5, hawkmoth, swallowtail.

I see them with my blurred6 understanding

as feathers in the coverlet of haze7

in Brajcino Valley's noon-hot air.