The garden is silent
When red of my roses burnt into brown and your pansies have perished in snow the garden is silent, the orchard is bare. When ivy has strangled the plum tree […]
Author Archives: Björn Rudberg (brudberg)
Room at the attic
Summers of my childhood were sometimes spent in the big countryside manor of my grandparents. Uncles and aunts, cousins and rooms more than we could count. Days followed days in […]
What’s the color of peace?
It must be a color less like the soil not ochre, sienna or brown reminding of trenches or graves; it cannot be red as the rage of revenge, the color […]
The townhouse can wait
Philip pushes his way through the hallway cluttered with clothes and toys. Her clothes, their toys. The condo, once perfect for a bachelor, is simply too cramped since Janine moved […]
This is what I mean when I talk about roses
It’s neither the sun nor the waves, neither mountains nor forests. It’s not the boughs of our oak in summer, when laden with leaves. It’s neither the nightingale’s song nor […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 