I rise on dragonfly wings,
glimmering through the light of youth
and literature,
my aged body wrapped
in a thick grandpa rug;
a chrysalis, materially lowly,
spiritually aloof, evanescent,
taking sides with Marcel Proust
on his shaman flight
through De coté de chez Swann;
this Per-Albin house in Northbothnia
a nailed up fairytale
on top of a till hill,
buzzing with thoughts and wasps;
the universe plotting its course
between my ears,
lighting innumerable synapses
on the sonic waves
of Paiste tam-tams