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gammalt slott,
en öde borg långt uppe på ett berg
i en okänd tid. [---]
[Han] sprang vidare,
gråtande,
kände på alla de stängda dörrarna,
öppnade en och fann där
sig själv som barn
i ett svartmålat rum,
skrek,
slog upp en annan
och såg där
sin mor, död,
och gnyende tog han sig
vidare
genom sin egen helvetiska skapelse [...]
och han skrek, grät och mumlade
men ingen hörde honom och
han sågs aldrig mera till. (s.125ff)
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From having been tame and mild
the poem suddenly sprang from
the unconcious
and devoured,
like a hideous monster,
with flesh and bone,
voluptuously,
its own creator,
the poet himself,
who ran howling in its
winding sentences.
And these were like long passages.
Like desolate corridors in an uninhabited
old castle,
a desolate castle high up on a mountain
in an unknown time. [---]
Weakly, indistinctly,
he still heard
voices, shouts and laughter
behind the
damp walls
and ran on,
crying,
felt all the closed doors,
opened one and there found
himself as a child
in a room painted black,
screamed,
opened another
and there saw
his mother, dead,
and whining he got himself
further
through his hellish
creation [...]
and he screamed, cried and mumbled
but no one heard him and he was never seen again.
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