They say she lives, she lives who once was yours—
Go seek her on Clevevägen, the doors
To her are brown beneath a portico
—But I tell them no, no I will not go.
“But I saw her in the Normark hundred
She was walking the pine-strewn snow,” he said.
—I will mount a pulpit, sink to hellish low,
But you saw only Sintram spreading woe.
“But she was dancing with an icicle,
Gösta, she sang with wolves atop a hill:
‘För den, som ur Eden förbannats,
Är Eden ett Eden ändå, mitt hjärta.'”
They do not understand: she died long ago,
The Värmeln froze her heart, so I will not go.