In Oslo

I walk around in the parks of Oslo A bird scrapes Ibsen’s ear with its beak The ash-colored seagulls Strut on the square They resemble unsightly hens An ensemble from South America Plays music of the Andes With long violent colored flutes The summer night is so generous The day can’t fill itself with obscurity For a long time Here the greatest paladins Aren’t princes with swords But valiant scouting navigators Who gave other dimensions to the world. Their unyielding spirits Are not in museums They wander unceasingly on the fjords.