Before the Crack Appears / I väntan på Sprickan
A poem about the turbulent process of transformation
This is a new poem that emerged this week as a way to process what is currently happening inside me. I had a conversation yesterday that made me realize that I’m in a transformation of some sort. It feels like my inner being is restructuring, fueled by my soul-searching walks in nature. As with all inner transformation, there are no guarantees, and the future will tell if a new me wants to be born, and this poem captures my inner being now and some time back.
As always, the English translation comes first, followed by the original Swedish at the end.
Before the Crack Appears
The breath in the in-between
pulls at my core.
The shell I carry,
a cocoon,
a surface of flesh and blood,
encloses the transformation.
It hides an inner life
slowly being born
through the womb of the cosmos.
A hearth fueled by the heart’s timber
feeds the alchemy.
The pulse of love in encounters,
mirroring souls
in a dance
through galaxies—
all drawn to the same
black hole of love.
The whirlwinds of thought
tear at the soul,
even as the sun
whispers of darkness.
The fog thickens,
vision blurs,
like the green waters of the Baltic Sea
on an early August morning.
My pulsing cocoon,
with an inner world of polarities.
A space with a pulse
of the order of stillness
and the chaos of screams.
Tired and alive,
sorrowful and joyful,
anxious and safe.
A journey to live
without answers,
but with a dream
of the crack,
when the cocoon opens,
and my eyes, curious,
gaze into the mirror,
searching what’s reflected—
is it the image of my body,
or the form of our Mother,
she who lives within my heart?I väntan på Sprickan
Andetaget i mellanrummet,
som sliter i mitt inre.
Skalet jag bär,
en kokong,
en yta av kött och blod,
omsluter förvandlingen.
Döljer ett inre,
som långsamt föds,
genom kosmos sköte.
En kamin med hjärtats virke,
eldar på omvandlingen.
Kärlekens puls från möten,
som speglar själar,
i en dans,
genom galaxer -
alla attraherade av samma
kärlekens svarta hål.
Tankarnas virvelvindar,
sliter i själen,
även då solen
viskar om mörker.
Dimman allt tätare,
synen grumlig,
som Östersjöns gröna vatten,
en tidig dag i augusti.
Min pulserande kokong,
med ett inre av polariteter.
En rymd med en puls,
av stillhetens ordning,
och skrikets kaos.
Trött och levande,
ledsen och lycklig,
orolig och trygg.
En resa att leva,
utan några svar,
men med en dröm,
om sprickan,
då kokongen öppnas,
och mina ögon nyfiket,
ser sig i spegeln,
söker det som speglas -
är det bilden av min kropp,
eller skepnaden av vår Moder,
hon som lever i mitt hjärta?