The little bird that carries the world
is sitting in a tree,
tomorrow he must make a nest
with twigs and bones and all the idle thoughts
that momentarily pass through the fragile brains of men...
The little fish that drinks the oceans
pauses briefly in his thirst.
Oh, how he would love to sleep
but the sea keeps filling up with tears
and liquid songs that poets sing
to ease the burden on their hearts,
with rivers of blood running freely to the shore
from far too many battlefields,
and the cries of mothers giving birth...
The little worm that turns the soil
that plants and trees might grow
- no one thanks him for his toil
but seldom does he tire,
digesting fallen leaves and small dead things,
savouring the remains of philosophers, priests and kings
the marvellous and the mediocre, the aweful and the average,
the great dissolving in his guts
next to the very least.
Spying him with keen bright eye
the little bird that carries the world
pauses in his nest-building
and whistling some merry tune he stole from Thirsty Fish,
gobbles up the tasty worm...
and then resumes his worldly task.
Already summer and autumn have passed
and still his nest is not complete.
Soon, the winds of all the worlds will come,
the Sun will lose its ruddy glow
the Moon and all the stars fall down
and men's thoughts gain some peace at last
beneath great swathes of fimbul-snow...
is sitting in a tree,
tomorrow he must make a nest
with twigs and bones and all the idle thoughts
that momentarily pass through the fragile brains of men...
The little fish that drinks the oceans
pauses briefly in his thirst.
Oh, how he would love to sleep
but the sea keeps filling up with tears
and liquid songs that poets sing
to ease the burden on their hearts,
with rivers of blood running freely to the shore
from far too many battlefields,
and the cries of mothers giving birth...
The little worm that turns the soil
that plants and trees might grow
- no one thanks him for his toil
but seldom does he tire,
digesting fallen leaves and small dead things,
savouring the remains of philosophers, priests and kings
the marvellous and the mediocre, the aweful and the average,
the great dissolving in his guts
next to the very least.
Spying him with keen bright eye
the little bird that carries the world
pauses in his nest-building
and whistling some merry tune he stole from Thirsty Fish,
gobbles up the tasty worm...
and then resumes his worldly task.
Already summer and autumn have passed
and still his nest is not complete.
Soon, the winds of all the worlds will come,
the Sun will lose its ruddy glow
the Moon and all the stars fall down
and men's thoughts gain some peace at last
beneath great swathes of fimbul-snow...
