Are you so old that you’ve no childhood?
Is your timeline so unreal
That all your sunsets
Come in the morning?
Baby…tell me…how you feel? Jefferson Airplane. Crown of Creation. 1968
Solen er så rød, mor
og skoven bli’r så sort
Nu er solen død, mor
og dagen gået bort.
Ræven går derude, mor
vi låser vores gang.
Kom, sæt dig ved min pude, mor
og syng en lille sang.Harald Bergstedt. Poems. 1915.
The name of the year was 59, my age 15, autumn it was, winter drawing near, the sky over the garden over my mothers house blazing with colours.
I was really fond of my mother, and when she had sent the last customers home from her shop below, where she sold a lot of dresses and other stuff to the women of our small town, we often sat talking, while dusk was falling. I really cherish the memory of that time, and one day, when we had been close to each other and discussion many subjects, me sitting in the red armchair, she in the sofa, I rose and went to the window and looked out.
58 years later I have tried to recollect the moment in this painting,