I rise on dragonfly wings,

glimmering through the light of youth

and literature,

my aged body wrapped

in a thick grandpa rug;

a chrysalis, materially lowly,

spiritually aloof, evanescent,

taking sides with Marcel Proust

on his shaman flight

through De cȏté de chez Swann;

this Per-Albin house in Northbothnia

a nailed up fairytale

on top of a till hill,

buzzing with thoughts and wasps;

the universe plotting its course

between my ears,

lighting innumerable synapses

on the sonic waves

of Paiste tam-tams