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.

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