Werner Aspenström
Strindberg Replies To An Ornithological Question
Strindberg is sitting in his wicker chair
in his celebrated garden
under a wide-brimmed hat
behind a mosquito-net tucked in his collar.
He seems not mentally disturbed and not
particularly peevish either
despite the many blood-suckers about.
Saturday evening has come again
and a toy trumpet has drowned
‘in the water-butt’.
On my way home I stop and wonder:
Tell me,
why does the starling sing unasked in autumn?
Strindberg draws a puff at the long pipe
he’s stuck through a hole in the mosquito-net
and states drily, like a man who knows what he’s talking about
and isn’t guessing
It has no cause not to.
Translated by Robin Fulton
Page(s) 37-38
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