my translation of "Om Hundrede Aar Er Alting Glemt" from Det Vilde Kor, 1904
Tonight I'm adrift, conflicted, and in doubt,
I feel like a capsized boat,
and for all I suffer and moan about
I have found no antidote.
But why should I feel so rotten?
In one hundred years all is forgotten.
I sing songs and prance about in pride
and live my life as a beautiful novel.
Like a full-grown troll I eat at God's side
and drink like the Devil's apostle.
But why act in ways so misbegotten?
In one hundred years all is forgotten.
It is best to end this struggle without delay
and into the sea with my tormented soul I will head.
There the world will find me one day
by the bitterest of drownings dead.
But why come to an end so ill-gotten?
In one hundred years all is forgotten.
No, it is better to wander about and stay alive
and write a new book every year
and for the noblest lines continue to strive
until I die a writer of great revere.
If that's all there is, where then do I begin:
In one hundred years all is forgotten.
** Previously translated in free verse here
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