Tonight I'm drifting, brooding and conflicted,
I feel like a capsized boat,
and for all I moan about and all I suffer
I see no resolution.
But why should I be so deeply troubled?
In one hundred years everything is forgotten.
Yes, I prance about and sing songs
and live my life like a beautiful novel.
I eat at God's side like a full-grown troll
and drink like the devil himself.
But why should I continue on with this buffoonery?
In one hundred years everything is forgotten.
Better to put an end to this struggle
by walking into the sea with my tormented soul.
There the world will find me one day
dead by bitter drowning.
But why should I come to such a bad end?
In one hundred years everything is forgotten.
Oh no, it's better to wander and to live
and write a book for every year to come
and to soar at last on the noblest of lines
and die as a master of the novel.
Since there is only this, I lose all hope:
In one hundred years everything is forgotten.
This poem set to music by the Norwegian band Lumsk
They are far more advanced. Finn's too. Melancholic, tragic.
ReplyDeleteI eat at god's side like a full grown troll, knowing that in 100 years my days will be remembered more intensely than I remember them now.there are no secrets under the eyes of the great creator.
ReplyDelete