Tomas Transtromer: From March 1979 | The New Republic

From March 1979

Sick of those who come with words, words but no language,
I make my way to the snow-covered island. 

Wilderness has no words. The unwritten pages
stretch out in all directions.

I come across this line of deer-slots in the snow: a language,
language without words.

—Translated by Robin Robertson

This article appeared in the November 17, 2011, issue of the magazine.