The care tree

The care tree Viktor Rydberg
April 15, 1965: Child day care center in Lillån, Närke, with a Christmas tree in front of the house. Photo: Örebro Kuriren / Örebro County Museum

To Agathe and Richert von Koch.

On the farmer's farm
stood aged linden,
the revered tree of eating,
with huge crown
and trunk, runicized by twenty genealogies.

The storm came,
stronger than in living memory:
the lovely tree,
weighed down by the years,
fell.

People of the house
stood mourners around the fallen.
Silver-haired grandfather,
that tempted ninety winters,
caressed with withered hand
her windswept bark and said:

We will not part, you will not die.
You shall live in a daughter,
a strong descendant of your tribe.
In yourself lived a mother,
which, when Midgard was a thousand years younger than now,
shot up from its mull
and gave coolness to fathers,
whose names are sensed on the mouth of Saga,
if they had not faded into the distance of time.

And your daughter will grow,
blessed by the heavenly ones,
and with a whizzing crown
for the relatives, who come,
tell the tales,
that you told
for bygone generations,
and lift, like you,
listening spirits
to eternal thoughts.

What oldest I remember
is my mother's gaze
and then you, friend of my days!
As a child I was put to sleep
of your rush:
heavy eyes
searched yet
in the saltbox window
your swaying foliage,
where it trembled
in lovely sunlight
or glimpsed
against the stars of twilight.

My first sport
where, when the road
climber he
your highest branch
and saw there
with enchanting sight,
with budding desire
to management trips,
in gold glitter
the limitless,
the sky-reflecting sea.

I remember so well:
your winged guests
did not protect
the untamed.
By age there were
a covenant of peace
between my family
and your fellow citizens.
Trygg chirped
the tree pipit,
the starling attracted,
the leaf singer
sang his beautiful
show next to me.

When I was young
returned,
then far away with the sails
swan I have traveled,
sought my gaze
hang over the plain
at a distance
the rounding of your foliage,
and when I've had time
to the home gate,
you whispered
to the welcome greeting
my best
childhood memories
and my vows for life.

How beautiful I saw you
that summer day,
then home I brought
my fair bride!
How wasteful
you've gotten sloppy
in your veins
flower buds!
Never through you
sweeter
the smell of your steam
in the evening air
than when the sun, which shone
the happy day,
sank down under shimmering clouds.

Let us not part,
you memorable!
You are now moving in
in the hall of the fathers;
for thy wood shall be wrought
in ingenious carving
for high seat posts
and sacred images,
as interpreted in characters
mysteries of the ages
and urge to male
life of mine.
Your wood will be crafted
to protective shields
to be raised in front of
law and freedom;
with the iron sharpened
for spear poles
to be brought into feud
for foster soil
of my sons
brave sons
in Svealandens
the ranks of warriors.

Ashes I know,
mentioned Yggdrasil:
it is the mighty
the spring tree of everything.
Worlds at
its branches rest,
its root ran up
from the depths of space.

The light, which in the tree
crown molding
the freshness of life,
colour and colouring,
it is believed, will
from the human world,
from the good old days
thoughts and deeds.

But Nidhögg gnaws
in the root network,
and he married into
in the wounds;
it, it is believed, will
from the human world,
out of the evil of ages
thoughts and deeds.

Nornan said:
it is approaching days,
as extremely close
The poison of the night.
The sweetness of larch
singing then pays
with the iron of the arrow
in the singer's heart;
scourged sargar
sucking dragonfly
in gratitude for your trouble
in the midday heat.
Proud walks with unweight
shoulder the strong,
the weak bear
his burden and his.
Bonden fäller,
fal for profit,
single-handedly
his estate's pine tree.
The fleeting now
want to enjoy their own,

but not chain antiquity
and future together.
How to loosen the levers
sacred links.
Sky vision
no more.
Runes of the Council
roasted by violence.
As gods are worshipped
Lust and Gold.

Then Yggdrasil complains
trees and chirping,
then turns yellow lush
leafy arches and thins.
It suffers
against the fimbrial winter
predicted night of horror.

Hard is in the world,
terrible injustice,
tablecloth
for the daughters of lust,
death of hunger
by virtuous mothers
sagging breasts
for the children of the slave.

Then Yggdrasil complains
trees and chirping,
its branches squeak for icy isles.
It shines through
against the fimbrial winter
predicted night of horror.

"Let brothers be brothers
bane varda,
worn out sisters
sons' kinship.
Hard is in the world,
horrible vices,
ax time, knife time
with split shields."

Yggdrasil whines
with the crown stripped,
now trembles its strong
stem to root,
the quake shakes the foundations of the earth,
flame ladder
from the depths of the mountains.

The sun burned out,
the night has come,
storms roar
in desolate spaces.
But louder roars
Heimdallsluren,
that rattles to the last battle of creation.

Up beats
abyssal gates,
The Giant Mountains
grifter opens.
Those who have lived,
revived
to claim your space
in the ranks of the armies.

Spjutswingande
crowds explode
in different directions
on fast horses
there, where she flutters,
Loki's banner,
there, where she shines,
Balder the Good.

Wild they mix
in a hail of gunfire,
glow of burning
flames of the world.
Does Loki win?
Is Balder winning?
Conquering evil
or the good?

The wave of battle
bowls falter -
all we laid
where our plumbing -
until in the salvation
weighing pan precipitator
unnamed God
its goodness weights.
The Evil One
then to nothing,
wildfire
was a purification fire.

Then rises from the depths
a more beautiful earth,
where spring plays
around the sources of life.
In addition to the
wider Yggdrasil,
the spring tree of everything,
a friend's crown.

Sinless family
gather there
to eternal joy
in the halls of light,
and the age of innocence
paintings, the golden ones,
found in the grass
at lovely strain.

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