VII Secrets of the Craft
It happens like this: a kind of lethargy,
In my ears the sound of a clock chiming,
Thunder fading in the distance.
Trapped, unrecognizable voices
Wail and cry out to me: the closing in
Of some mysterious circle.
But from this abyss of whispers and bells
Rises a single all-conquering sound,
Despite the forest’s surrounding
Silence – hear grass growing,
Hear the wood troll walking with his sack.
And listen! The sound of words,
Rhymes l their arrival,
And I begin to understand:
Lines simply taken down
Appear on pages white as snow.
Today, we would call it ‘The Painter’!