Many years later, it looks, we’ve
Grown up. Though apart, that dream,
Is best that it split like glass.
Deep down, we both used to breathe
Out our arse.
Many years later, you tell me stories
Of how Norwegian wood sweats in summer.
“Oh, good” I say, thinking all the time
Of the Beatles’ song. You say: “hey,
Did I do you wrong?”
No. In fact, it was only I, who
Dreamed of six other women
While being in love with you. And at the
Same fatal hour, even as you denied it,
I spoke and I wrote of love that’s true
To the word and the word
Once it’s given up and released
Makes sounds that’s unheard of.
You didn’t do me wrong. Sweet bird
Of Norwegian summer.