One of my favorite poets, Thomas Transtromer, wins the Nobel Prize for Literature in poetry for 2011.
2am: moonlight. The train has stopped
out in the middle of the plain. Far away,
points of light in a town,
flikering coldly at the horizon.
As when someone has fallen into a
dream so deep
he’ll never remember having been there
when he comes back to his room.
As when someone has fallen into an
illness so deep
everything his days were becomes a few
flickering points, a swarm,
cold and tiny on the horizon.
The train is standing quite still,
2am: bright moonlight, few stars.