It was day when I slept and it was day when I woke. You shone in the sunlight; you were waters, you were wilds, and you were old, broken cobblestones. You gave me no place to hide from your summer, and even your midnight pried me open in bright delight.
My clothes smell like fish and my hair too. I ate your fish and sour pickles, your beets and berries.
I leapt into the Baltic and heard tales of Ostsiedlung. I touched salt and stone and broken boat, and wondered how you could be bounteous still.
I asked you if you were happy, and you said you are no Norway gluttonous on oil. You were more rundown than I thought, and you still liked your immigrants so.
I’d never felt more welcomed than when you opened to me your streets and canals. I am sad that I’ve to leave you now. I did never learn what to do with welcome. I’ll return to a place that doesn’t like me much, but it was my escape from a place I didn’t like much.
I’ll remember you well, your warmth and your smell. Have me back, someday, when I’m wiser, when I’ve given up my follies. I’ll come back to you, I promise I will, and I’ll write to you better odes. Until then, have this, this meagre song to the north.