What ever happens: we've got several birch trees by
the open window, and anything will match with them. Every
hand gesture, a start, perhaps, a piece of paper.
Or the row of houses in rain or sun or as
large, skinned salmon. Women and children begin
to call, bind their voices to the birches, attempt
something, go on. We feel a wave on our
cheeks. Our fingers appear and play and
become more and more. We can do no wrong.
If we too match the birches, playfully changing our
moods, sitting somewhere with summer shoes on,
backs to the salmon. Salmon, we say, salmon, and then ask:
Who'll provide the water, the grates, the weatherproof
scales? Now the air in every room is salmon air, the
outer air of birches. And the voices of women and
children run without women and children around the
birches.

Translated by Brian Currid