by Tomas Transtromer （Translated by Robert Bly）

    Once there was a shock

    that left behind a long， shimmering¹ comet² tail.

    It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.

    It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.

    One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun

    through brush where a few leaves hang on.

    They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories³.

    Names swallowed by the cold.

    It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat

    but often the shadow seems more real than the body.

    The samurai looks insignificant⁴

    beside his armor of black dragon scales.

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