^{translated from the Danish by Sophia Hersi Smith and Jennifer Russell}

There lives a young girl in me who will not die,
she is no longer me, and I no longer her,
but she stares back when I look in the mirror,
searching for something she hopes to recover.

There is no one else in the world she can ask:
Where are the earnest smiles, the carefree dances?
Where are my dreams and the joy of twenty?
Tell me, have you made the most of my chances?

I try to catch that pale, shimmering gaze,
try to silence her questioning refrain,
and in the depths of my heart I hear a regret,
softly dripping like the sound of rain.

‘Your dreams were flimsy, child, and doomed to fail,
your innocence ruined by the truth you were told –
your budding hopes fell to the ground
the night reality invaded your soul.

‘You had a girl’s dream of a husband and baby,
and you got what you wanted but were still alone,
so you remained in childhood’s wondrous land,
while I am left roaming a world of stone.

‘It is by your sheer strength you have not died,
but live on somewhere as a faint likeness,
though I have sold your dreams for a roof and bread
and brought you pain I mistook for happiness.

‘And my only salvation is feeling your voice
as a surge in my heart’s languid beat –
you are my defence, my unrest and deepest comfort,
constant and true through time’s fickle retreat.’

There lives a young girl in me who cannot die
until I tire of believing I once was her.
She stares back when I look in the mirror,
searching for something she longs to recover.

^{translated from the Danish by Sophia Hersi Smith and Jennifer Russell}

The woman upstairs
borrows a cup of flour
to strike up conversation.
She smells of whisky
she’s a widow
her son’s an addict.

Sure I say
while I worry.
He didn’t come
home last night
there’s someone else
I don’t know
whether we’ll split the bills
right away.

Her mouth
is open and wet.
The words fall
onto the floor
I stuff them
back in
without looking at them.

She’s unhappy
age takes its toll
it must be difficult
I say
and give her a gentle push
so the door will close.
Flour sprinkles
onto her faded
housecoat
a thread of blue silk
catches on her nail.

When I
have time
when things
fall into place
when I’ve had
a good night’s sleep
and donated to
Friends of the Elderly and
Save the Children
I’ll check in on
the woman upstairs

who no longer
needs flour
who no longer
makes gravy
and bakes white bread
who needs someone
who is happy
and has plenty of time.