I like that mountain in its black pelisse
of fir forests – because
in the gloom of a strange mountain country
I am closer to home.
How should I not know those dense needles,
and how should I not lose my mind
at the mere sight of that peatbog berry,
showing blue along my way?
The higher the dark and damp
trails twist upward, the clearer
grow the tokens, treasured since childhood,
of my northern plain.
Shall we not climb thus
the slopes of paradise, at the hour of death,
meeting all the loved things
that in life elevated us?