Johannes Edfelt
The Bed
I go there often in my dreams, and each time it’s as heavy as walking through soft clay. I know every nook and cranny of the room. I see the bed again: in the corner its mahogany posts and ends gleam. Among the medicine bottles on the bedside table stands the alarm clock, the one that measured out the minutes of the final pain, unreal slow minutes, while the flowers in the vase blended their scents with the smell of ether and camphor. It’s only with the greatest effort that I’m able to approach the bed. I lower my eyes before the invalid’s face, framed by the white hair. Speechless, numb, nailed to the spot, I stand by the bed that became your death-bed, you, who gave me birth.
(1976)
Translated by Robin Fulton
Page(s) 14
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