The snow is a blue overcoat,
a dog team.
The direction is: Jokkmokk.
A polar wind whistles,
Sam fishermen have collected
their catch
in sledges;
they’ve caught the fish
from holes drilled
in the ice.
The white sunset burns
the men’s sharp eyes.
A mountain, like a pudding
with its rounded ridges,
overwhelms the lakes
with a hard crust.
How long
will moths of mica impetuously fly?
They gleam on the deer stirrups.
Five men are coming back home.
Tomorrow morning the fishermen
will display living rődings at the fish market:
many women
and children in embroidered topcoats
will thong the place.
The youngest one will croon
a song in the distance,
the most daring one will go home
with a good man by her side.
Twenty beautiful huskies
will go to sleep behind the baskets.
They, just like people, plunge into dreams –
howling eerily, they roll the Polar Circle’s wheel
until
an apple-colored sunset
wakes up
the huskies’ camp.
A wild land,
Dogs scampering around,
Fisherman from Sam,
God of snow,
At 5 am
the team
starts from Jokkmokk.