English version: Petronella Zetterlund



in the beginning a pulsating variable. no, many. bodies take up the dark. something opens up inwards.

(everything had colors, blinding, and shone in the sun.)

bodies moving towards each other. hungry and expectant.

(we wanted so much of nothing.)

a puzzle to carefully solve.

(we nestled, found our place.)

a map extends itself.

(shut our eyes.)


one of them, a hunter.

a constellation hard to relate to.

at least for a hunter

who hunts half-heartedly

(points the sword in every direction.)

shines a little less than it knows it should.

who feels hunted.

(that’s not the way it’s supposed to be.)

having nightmares about scorpions and big black holes.

a hunter with a secret.

a belt that goes out one by one.

(writes down

today the same.

every day the same.

the sword aches and the shield feels dry.

maybe a deficiency disease?

maybe nothing.)

the fear of what’s behind

leaves the body without any peace.

(likewise, the desire to fall headlong.)


more of the same.

in an afterwards someone will say

that was a sign, we should have understood.

but it will take time

and sound like a whisper up on the mountain.


a tear in time. something opening up outwards. breaks.

a heat spreading over the lips and the eye.

it moves.

a shooting over the canopy.

burning through the layers.

remains lying there.

a hunter

a splash of fire scattered in the white.

the belt still twinkles faintly.

(writes down

remained lying there

for a long time

saw the canopy extend over the heavens

did not long to return.)

perceives what floats underneath the surface

the impenetrability and the pressure.

a pulse that awaits. 

– I lay down but didn’t fall asleep.

            – it’s not that easy.

– still I woke in an unfamiliar place.

            – to suddenly be another body.

– I let my eyes get used to the light.

            – to arrive when the end is already here.

– I let my skin get used to the cold.

            – you know what I mean.

– I let my heart get used to the beats.

            – this place.

– I let my lungs get used to the air.

            – it used to be bigger. colder. better.

– I let my hands get used to each other.

            – do you remember?

– I let my thoughts get used to the sounds.

            – no, you weren’t here

– I let my lips get used to the words.

            – but everyone else was here. they were watching.






the nights grow light.

the days grow dark.

it is what it is.

the wind over the lips and the eye.

the water, now with a glassy feverish look.

a hunter takes courage.

grabs the sword and the shield.

navigates by responsibility and sensibility.

fights the elements



uses force and wit to turn back time.

so it goes on

filled with the sense of finally belonging.

a hunter with something to hunt.

but the heat moves in restless circles

and the canopy is still full of haze.

a hunter, at last, falls to the ground.

everything has changed

and everything is just like before.

– I did my best.

            – I know.

– no one else was there.

            – I know.

– I wrote everything down.

            – why?

– I didn’t want to forget.

            – what did you see?

– how everything left me.

            – the ocean?

– no.

            – the rain?

– no.

            – the frozen waters?

– yes

            – and then?


a pulsating variable

and a body filled with darkness.

shuts itself tight.

(a hunter’s last annotation

nothing burned

no one screamed

there was complete silence but for my own breathing

and a movement rather than a sound

that was caught by the wind

as the cover gave way under the heavy weight.

Martina Moliis-Mellberg

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