In the Svalbard kirke I was kindly said: - We all are fellow-Christians! Come on inside, feel easy, Take pictures, have some coffee And sit by the altar Together with us. Burn this little candle. We need no money from you.
Walking downhill, I saw no path: Maybe the ice got in my eyes, Or I was seized by emotions. Smiling faces there were On my way to the town When you just look And say: “Those are Vikings!” I also saw Slavic faces, of course.
The sun was unbearably bright. Was it my God? Or was it Odin? Or maybe Yarilo Who helped me achieve my whim - I’m in the museum, Saying nothing of that I experienced Norwegian wings About a month ago.
Ancient intricate runes Have torn the rhythm of my poems Like my torn boots Made of fleece. Those boots were neither the first, Nor the sevenths Like in the fairy-tale Read to me by my granny When I was a child.
But I am an alien for them. Norsemen asked me: – Are you from US? – Even twice. And I suddenly felt like Staying here forever, It was also a whim. I wanted to drink akvavit Always instead of vodka. And say “Ha det bra!” Instead of good bye And answer for it “Ha det godt!” But Arctic winds Severely whisper to me: - Enough. Fare thee well!