I have my roots inside me,

a skein of red threads.

The stones have their roots inside them,

like fine little ferns.

Wrapped around their softness

the stones sleep hard.

For centuries they have rested

under the sun.

Old mountains

want to turn to sand.

They let themselves go

and open up to water.

After centuries of thirst!

Like language–

that great mountain broken up

by our tongues.

We turn language to sand,

immersing the tongue

in a running stream

that moves mountains.

–Tommy Olofsson, Sweden