The Outpost I’m ordered out to a heap of stones like a distinguished corpse from the Iron Age. The others are back in the tent sleeping stretched out like spokes in a wheel. In the tent the stove rules: a big snake that has swallowed a ball of fire and hisses. But out in the spring night it is silent among cold stones waiting for day. Out in the cold I begin to fly like a shaman. I fly to her body With its white marks from her bikini— we were out in the sun. The moss was warm. I flit over warm moments but can’t stop for long. They’re whistling me back through space— I crawl out from the stones. Here and now. Mission: to be where I am. Even in that ridiculous, deadly serious role— I am the place where creation is working itself out. Daybreak, the sparse tree trunks are colored now, the frostbitten spring flowers form a silent search party for someone who has vanished in the dark. But to be where I am. And to wait. I am anxious, stubborn, confused. Coming events, they’re there already! I know it. They’re outside: a murmuring crowd outside the gate. They can pass only one by one. They want in. Why? They’re coming one by one. I am the turnstile. --Tomas Tranströmer | 
