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morning-darkness leaves behind its blacking,

rubbing off on everything I touch.

It could be worse, it could

always be worse, but could it

be better? No, never better than

this moment, it's perfect, it'll never

come back. The child sleeps,

the cat plays with its tail, traffic

sighs past on Falkoner Allé. I jot this down

in the margin of the newspaper, drink

a cup of tea, somewhere someone

opens a book, the year has just begun,

and life, the late dawn sneaks in,

polishes the dark spots clean.

Night-black silver, January’s luminous

Per Brask & Patrick Friesen, translation from
the Danish written by Ulrikka S. Gernes

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