"Next time" -- April 18, National Poetry Month

Next time

Next time, I will be born

in a room overlooking the Nyhavn.

There will be no witnesses,

the flapping of flags in the Danish

summer wind shall be the only sound

my mother hears.

Sweaty sailors with hands

full of herring, warm beer

sloshing over edges of glass,

raucous and righteous hearty Viking laughter,

tourists click clicking yellow

and blue buildings

older than their country.

Sausages dripping with juices

of cucumber slices,

fried onions breaking

between crooked teeth,

red bricks, red paint,

red blood.

Next time, my first word

will be "mor," my second "far,"

my last, "farvel."

Next time, I will

never

utter

a single

word

in English.

Og hvis I kan ikke forstår mig,

fint. Jeg savner allerede mit næste liv.